


The Song of the Treadmill

by tabaqui



Series: Treadmill [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-31
Updated: 2013-01-31
Packaged: 2017-11-27 16:29:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 48,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/664071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tabaqui/pseuds/tabaqui
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sam discovers a way to save Dean from his demon-deal, it sends him on an odyssey of alternate worlds and alternate lives, until he finally finds a place to live again.  Canon-compliant up to the deal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Song of the Treadmill

**Author's Note:**

> The title of this fic is from 'The Song of the Treadmill' by Oliver Wendell Holmes. Included within are also various Show characters in small roles and a few original characters, ditto. Originally posted in November of 2007.

 

 _The stars are rolling in the sky,  
The earth rolls on below,  
And we can feel the rattling wheel  
Revolving as we go.  
Then tread away, my gallant boys,  
And make the axle fly;  
Why should not wheels go round about,  
Like planets in the sky?_  
  
  
It doesn't end with a bang, or a whimper. It doesn't end in ice or fire or with some rough beast, eternally slouching toward an impossible Bethlehem. It ends as it began, with a bargain – a deal. Life for life, soul for soul – Sam for Dean forever, Amen.  
  
Sam can't flip those switches – can't find the end to unravel the skein. But he can trade Hell for Heaven, and he can make sure that someone – two someones – are waiting there for Dean.  
  
 _I can't leave you, Sam. I'm the big brother – I'm supposed to take care of you._  
  
 _It's my turn. It's **my** turn, Dean. It'll be okay. Angels watching over us, remember?  
  
I remember,_ Dean says. All that they've done and seen is in his eyes – every emotion he's ever let through shining there for Sam to see. Burning away the tiredness that has settled on Dean's shoulders in the last handful of months, leaving nothing but warmth and brightness and...happiness. Dean strides away into light and shadow – to the arms and hands and smiles that welcomed him into life. It breaks Sam's heart and mends it, all at once.  
  
And then Sam's alone and the angel is there, smiling a sideways, crooked smile. Tatterdemalion in blue and black, mud on the sides of road-broken boots.  
  
 _So. You ready?_ the angel says, and Sam sighs and sniffs. Wipes his eyes with the palm of his hand and takes a deep, deep breath.  
  
 _Yeah, sure. Let's go._  
  
The crossroads fades behind them, and the world seems smaller, now. Colder, without Dean right there; shield-mate and strong right arm. Not quite as wonderful, and Sam doesn't mind saying goodbye.  
  
  
  
 _There's a balance,_ the angel had said. Long ago, when Sam first made the bargain – first pressed a nicked and bleeding thumb to a scrap of snow-white lamb skin. _There's always a balance, and sometimes it shifts out of true, but most often it's in the middle. You...must make sure it stays there.  
  
How? I'm just – I'm just human. I'm not...special._  
  
The angel had laughed then – laughed silently, but Sam had felt it in his head like the ringing of a silver bell.  
  
 _Oh, Samuel. You'll learn._ And Sam did.  
  
He learned that they made a difference, a vital – impossible – difference. Somehow, worlds and universes and the souls of billions rested on one, fragile thing: that the Winchesters fought. That was all that mattered.  
  
And Sam was there every time. To provide the crucial words – to nudge the needed book out of the shadows. To stop a bullet with his own body, or hold pressure on a wound until someone – Dad, Dean, this world's version of himself – could get there. Could hear last words, give last promises. Gain some small measure of strength, so that the living could go on. Sometimes they saw him – most often, they didn't. Only the dying ones knew for sure, and they only had eyes for the ones they left behind – for the light up ahead, that folded them into something Sam couldn't know.  
  
A thousand thousand Deans – a hundred thousand Sams. Dads and Moms and even baby brothers – older sisters, sometimes. Countless quests and fights and sorrows and Sam only lived that moment of crisis – that endless step-catch-step when it all could have gone wrong.  
  
He made it right, and then he moved on.  
  
 _This is how you fix it **here** , Samuel. This is how you make this place – this world – safe. Dean can't be in Hell, so you must get him to Heaven. And in return, you must make sure all the others...are safe. You must make sure all the others fight, or inspire men to fight. You Winchesters...you're a lynch-pin like no other, and this is how you pay for your brother's soul._  
  
Dean was safe, and that was all that mattered. Safe and with his family. Most of his family. And if Sam got lonely, sometimes – if he sometimes felt everything that he _was_ unhitching and unhinging and fraying far and wide, well... There was always another moment – another place. Another brother or father or self who _needed_ him, just for a moment. Just for a day.  
  
It was enough, because it had to be.  
  
  
  
Sam lost count of the years, because after a while it simply didn't matter anymore. And time runs differently for angels and those who keep their company. The road they traveled was forever one of pale moonlight and dust, and it never changed – never came to an end. Only curved softly, on and on, under the high, arching branches of cottonwood and birch. The angel always one step ahead, one step to the left. So much like Dean, but so utterly not.  
  
And then suddenly...something _was_ different. Something was changed, and Sam stopped and waited, trying to puzzle it out. Feeling something surging through him, light and clean and cold, like spring water welling up from the ground.  
  
The angel stopped, as well – turned and reached out and touched Sam's shoulder, gripping lightly. It was like being touched by electricity and flame – like a brush of icy feathers and hot needles and Sam shied away. The angel had never touched him before.  
  
And then everything whirled away, familiar rush of burning shadow, a hiss like a thousand serpents and Sam's heart beating too fast – too loud. Cracking boom of summer-storm thunder, loud enough to shake your bones and Sam's head came up from where it was pillowed on his arms with a snap, cramp of stiff muscles all down his back.  
  
"Stop –"  
  
"Hey, now, boy – you all right?" someone said, and Sam blinked. Blinked again, looking around him in confusion. His eyes adjusting to a smoke-muffled dimness, to old, dark wood and buzzing neon.  
  
 _*Where...? The Roadhouse. God, haven't see this place since...*_ "Hey, Ellen, sorry," Sam said, his heart already beating fast. Waiting for the moment to come – the crisis to descend.  
  
Ellen cocked her head, dark eyes assessing him in that way she had. Small smile quirking her lips a little, her hands flat and spread wide on the bar. "I guess you're the friend of a friend, if you know me, but I don't let _anybody_ sleep it off on my bar."  
  
"Huh? Ellen –" Sam stopped himself. Closed his mouth and nodded, sliding down off the stool he was on. His legs were halfway asleep, tingling and clumsy. "Sure. Sorry about that. Long trip. I'll just...uh –"  
  
Ellen's expression softened a little, and her smile was wider this time. "Now, son, it's all right. I just don't let anybody but Ash take a snooze hereabouts. You can sit a spell, if you like. Gotta buy something, though."  
  
"Uh – sure. Sure, gimme a beer." Sam watched her nod and walk over to the coolers – studied what he could see in the warped mirror over the bar. Groups of hunters, two or three or four strong, hunched around tables. Solitary men, and women as well, drinking or eating. Absorbed in conversation or a book or stained journals. Autumn or winter outside, because everyone was in heavy shirts – jackets still on or draped over chair-backs, hats and gloves spilling out of pockets. Everything seemed...frayed. Worn out and old. The bar was clean but cracked – rough. The bottles Sam could see were fewer than usual – some almost empty, neck and shoulders dimmed with a flouring of dust. The jukebox was dark.  
  
"Here you go," Ellen said, putting a bottle down in front of Sam with a little _crack_ and Sam nodded – reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of crushed bills. Bills he'd looked at and crumpled and smoothed out countless times. He'd never had to spend them, before this. Never had the chance. He counted out five ones onto the splintery wood and looked up in surprise when Ellen snatched the bottle back with a little snort of amusement.  
  
"Something wrong?" Sam asked, and Ellen's gaze went narrow and a little mean.  
  
"If you think you can buy a beer from me with play money, you're either high or stupid. Or crazy, and I don't tolerate the first two or need the third. So get out."  
  
"Hey, Ellen –"  
  
" _Boy_ , I don't know you from Adam, so you better just get yourself gone. Right now." From her stance, Sam could tell Ellen had a gun under the bar – had her hand right on it, and Sam lifted his own hands, palms out. Took a step back, his heart beating hard in his chest.  
  
"Okay, hey, okay, I'm sorry, I... I guess I just –"  
  
"You're just gonna get the fuck out of here," Ellen snapped, and Sam nodded. Backed up a few more steps and then turned, making his way toward the door. Surreptitious looks followed him, but no one said a word.  
  
 _*What the hell, where's Dean, where's Dad, what do I **do**?*_ Sam pushed fast through the door, feeling almost panicked – not paying attention and his shoulder slammed solidly into someone. "Hell, I'm ss..." Sam said, and then choked on the rest of the sentence, staring.  
  
Staring into green eyes that stared right back, brows drawn down in a frown and lips - * _scar, he has a scar, oh, thank God –*_ thin and tight with annoyance.  
  
"Watch where the fuck you're going," Dean said, and Sam gaped at him for a long moment before he snatched desperately at the retreating back.  
  
" _Dean_ , hey, wait, I –"  
  
Dean – it _had_ to be Dean, couldn't _not_ be Dean – jerked his shoulder out of Sam's grasp, twisting around in the doorway and dropping his chin a little in that pose that had meant, for fifteen years or more, that he was about to throw a punch. "Get the fuck _off_ me."  
  
"But...Dean –"  
  
Sam couldn't help it – his hand went out again, reaching, and Dean's slapped it away, solid backhand with rough, bony knuckles. " _I don't know you._ So fuck off." Dean turned away, shouldering past the door and Sam felt a wave of suffocating fear roll over him.  
  
This was wrong – all wrong. The few times he'd actually _talked_ to his family, they'd always thought he was that world's Sam, last minute savior. A miracle walking, just _there_ in the middle of some dire situation that only he could avert. But there _was_ no situation – nothing was happening at all and that...that had to mean something. It _had_ to.  
  
Unthinking, Sam barreled right back through the doorway, three steps behind Dean. Reached again and touched the scarred shoulder of Dean's leather coat. Dean turned, snake-fast, only this time he had a gun in his hand, the barrel inches from Sam's face faster than Sam could blink.  
  
"I don't think you fucking heard me," Dean said. In that low, nearly pleasant voice he used when he was seconds away from killing something. The voice that had always sent a chill up Sam's spine, and this time was no different. Except that the gun – and the heart-stopping intent – was all directed at Sam.  
  
"God damnit, Winchester –" Ellen was striding out from behind the bar and someone – _Ash_ – was sliding around the corner and they were both armed. Both looking highly pissed off. Around them, every hunter had gone silent, watching the scene and Sam felt a cold sweat break out across his belly, sudden and sickly.  
  
"I'm takin' care of this," Dean snapped, and Sam held his hands wide, palms out.  
  
"Listen, I'm sorry, I – I just really need to talk to Dean."  
  
"You know this guy, Ellen? 'Cause I sure as fuck don't."  
  
Ellen stopped a few feet back from the both of them, a pump shotgun held crosswise in her hands. "No, I don't. He seems to know _us_ , though."  
  
"Does he, now?" Dean took a step closer, his expression so cold that Sam wanted to cringe away. "You better tell me who you are and what the fuck you want and make it _good_ , buddy. Or you're gonna be sorry."  
  
 _*Fuck, fuck, fuck... Don't panic. Jesus, this is...how can he not know me? Have to try –*_ "Okay, just – listen. My name's Sam. Sam Winchester. I'm... Dean, I'm your brother."  
  
Dean's face went white, the scar that cut diagonally across both lips standing out starkly against his skin. The hand holding the gun started to shake and his fist squeezed down tight, not quite stilling the tremor. " _Fuck. You._ My brother died when he was six years old. Now get the hell away from me." Abruptly, the gun went down and Dean turned on his heel and walked to the bar. Stood there, while Ash and Ellen both advanced, weapons held ready.  
  
"You heard the man. Get out," Ellen said, and Ash cocked the Colt pistol in his hand, his eyes hard and dark under the dirty-blonde bangs.  
  
"But –"  
  
" _Now_ , son. Unless you like bein' shot at," Ash said. Sam stared at them for a moment but there was – nothing. Not a hint of recognition – not a drop of tolerance. He nodded finally, letting his hands fall. Turning and walking out, the back of his neck prickling and the low hum of excited conversation starting all around him. He went out onto the porch and got about five steps across the gravel lot before his knees gave out and he went down.  
  
Knelt there under a cloud-choked sky, a winter wind threading cold fingers through his hair – freezing the tears he tried to blink away. _*Angel, what did you do? Is this...is it over? Is this hell? What am I supposed to do? What...am I supposed to do?*_

 

 

Sam stayed there, hunched over for a long time. Long enough for the cold to sink right in and freeze him – long enough for his legs to cramp and his knees and ankles to ache from the press of rough gravel. Long enough – for the first time in forever – to need to piss. To need to _eat_ , and the half-remembered sensations were terrifying and uncomfortable.  
  
Eventually, Sam levered himself to his feet and staggered across the parking lot. Relieved himself against a withered tree, wrinkling his nose at the heavy, acrid smell. Ruthlessly crushing the insistent little voice that whispered that this was Hell, it was over, his contract had run its course and he was...  
  
 _*Lost here. Stranded...oh, God. It can't be. It has to be something else...*_ "Angel? You...there?" But the sky was empty. The air was, so cold it burned inside Sam's lungs, tin-rust taste of snow and the thick tang of burning wood. Blowing hard, cutting to the bone and Sam zipped his jacket to his neck and shoved his hands down into his pockets – did the only thing he could think to do.  
  
The Impala was on the far side of a rust-bucket pick up and Sam felt his heart drop into his stomach at the first sight of...her. Filthy, faded – a set of scratches from bumper to bumper like claw marks, a dent in the middle of them, in the middle of the driver's side door. Her tires were balding and the inside was a tumbled mess of dirty clothes and blankets, rope and shovels and other gear.  
  
"Jesus...fuck, Dean." The door groaned when he opened it and that, at least, was right. The interior was stained – familiar rust-brown of old blood, crumbled streaks of dried mud. Stained and torn, patched with duct tape. Worn out and not right, _not right_ , and Sam almost shut the door again. Almost walked away. But all he knew was his family – all he knew was _Dean_ and Dad and their eternal fight and he just couldn't leave.  
  
Once, he'd done it. Once, he'd turned his back and walked away, fear making him snarl and snap like a cornered dog. Once, he'd thought he could live without them and time had proved him wrong. Sam sighed and slid into the seat, feet scuffling over carpet worn to the weft, matted with dead leaves. The interior the same and alien at the same time, unsettling and comforting both. It smelled of gunpowder and sweat and earth – of stale laundry and steel and he shut the door. Shoved his chilled hands into his pockets and hunched himself down into the seat. Head tipping back and eyes going shut almost on automatic, sudden exhaustion like a heavy wing, smothering him. Between one blink and the next, he was asleep.  
  
  
  
The double click of a gun being cocked _*Way too fucking close, oh shit...*_ woke Sam with a start and he jerked and then froze, icy circle of steel pressed to his temple.  
  
"Dean –"  
  
"Get the hell out of my car," Dean snarled, and Sam lifted his hands – squirmed across the seat, his feet tangling against each other. Then his sneakers were on the ground and Dean's hand was twisted in the front of his jacket. Sam was hauled bodily upward and around and sent stumbling back with a hard shove. Dean stood there, weapon steady – eyes cold – and for a moment Sam felt...  
  
 _*God, I'm so fucking tired...I'm just so tired...don't even care...shoot me, go on...sleep forever...*_ Dean never missed, and Sam was pretty sure it wouldn't hurt much. And maybe it showed, right then. That bone-deep weariness that the angel, it seemed, had been staving off for years. Showed all too clearly because Dean's head tilted, just a little. Puzzled and then exasperated, his hand dropping to his side.  
  
"Fuck. You're not even _trying_ , man. You don't even fucking care."  
  
"What?"  
  
"I'm _pointing a gun_ at you. And you looked like you wanted to give the barrel a blow-job."  
  
Sam laughed. Painful little cough that sounded like breaking glass. "God, you're gross."  
  
"Listen, I don't know who you are. I don't care. I won't help a suicide, though. So just – fuck off to wherever you came from and –"  
  
"I can't."  
  
"Sure you can." Dean tucked his lower lip between his teeth and whistled, a piercing pair of notes that started low and ended high. "Just – turn around and walk away."  
  
"No, Dean. I really...really can't." Sam took a step forward and the gun came up again, steady. Aimed right at Sam's gut.  
  
"You probably won't die if you can drag yourself into the Roadhouse in time."  
  
" _Dean_. Please, will you just – will you just listen? I know – I sound crazy but I'm _not_. I'm you're brother. I can prove it."  
  
"I told you," Dean said. Soft, precise – utterly devoid of any emotion. "My brother's dead. Car, Sammy."  
  
Sam jerked, shocked – jerked again, a step back as a large, dark shape streaked out of the shadows and jumped up into the car. "You have a...you have a _dog_? Dad never let us...you named your dog _Sam_? I think I'm kinda insulted."  
  
"I think you need to go home," Dean said, and he tucked his gun away, shutting the passenger door and walking around the back of the car, keys in his fingers, jingle and chime.  
  
"When you were four and I was six months old, our mom died. A demon killed her – pinned her to ceiling in my nursery, cut her open – set her on fire."  
  
Dean stood frozen, one hand on the door of the car, staring across the pocked roof at Sam. "When I was two and you were six, Dad took you shooting for the first time and you hit every target." Sam took a step toward the car and the dog in the front seat barked once. Sam hesitated, even though the window was rolled up. "When I was five and you were nine, you broke your wrist falling out of a tree at Bobby's yard. We were playing Star Wars." Dean just kept staring and Sam licked his lips – tried to steady his voice. It wobbled, just the same.  
  
"When I was six and you were ten, a _striga_ –"  
  
"Killed you. The _striga_ killed... Killed Sam."  
  
" _No_ Dean, Dad stopped it. He came in and stopped it and we got it. It took sixteen years but we killed it."  
  
"Sam _died_ ," Dean said, and his voice was harsh – rasping. He groped for the door handle and Sam stepped up fast, ignoring the growls that turned to barks, putting his hands on the roof of the car, palms open.  
  
"I'm not - _that_ Sam. I'm not...your Sam. But I _am_ your brother. Dean – I am. I lived. Somewhere else, I lived."  
  
"That's bullshit," Dean said, and yanked the door open. "Stifle it, Sammy," he said, afterthought, and the dog stopped barking.  
  
"No it's not. Dean –" Sam stopped. Took a long, hard breath, fighting the exhaustion and the twisting ache of an empty gut. Fighting the hopeless loneliness that rushed up and smothered him like a wave, dark and cold and heavy. "Please, just – just let me tell you everything, okay? Let me tell you and then... Then you can decide. Okay?" Dean's expression was shuttered – blank – but his eyes...  
  
His eyes held something of the same weariness and defeat. The same loneliness. He looked down at the car's roof, staring at the dirt-dusted metal. Seeing – something.  
  
"Dean...please?"  
  
"Fuck." Dean brought his fist down on the car's roof, and then he was striding around the back of the car again – pushing Sam up against the cold steel side. Doing a brisk, impersonal weapons-check, and tucking Sam's knife away into his own pocket with a little huff of breath. "That'd feel just awesome in my neck."  
  
"I don't want to hurt you."  
  
"Sure you don't. Think I'm stupid?" Dean stepped back and Sam turned around, hitching his shoulders a little to settle his jacket back into place. "Sammy rides shotgun," Dean said, little smirk of his scarred mouth and then he was walking away again, around the car and opening his door – sliding down into his seat. Sam just stood there for a second, staring, and then he opened the back door and shoved his way inside, pushing dirty laundry and a ragged blanket across the seat – stepping on coiled, muddy rope.  
  
"Can't believe you'd do this to your car," he muttered, and Dean turned the key and revved the engine hard. It roared steady and strong, running as smoothly as Sam had ever heard.  
  
"She's not a fairy princess, she's a workhorse. She knows what's important." The tires kicked up gravel as they sped out of the parking lot and Sammy-the-dog wuffed quietly, his chin on the seatback and his eyes fixed on Sam.  
  
"Where are we going?"  
  
"Someplace safe – a place I trust," Dean said, flick of a glance back at Sam in the rearview. A glance that clearly said ' _People I trust, because I sure don't trust **you**._ ' Sam got that. He'd do the same, if he were in Dean's shoes. It didn't make it hurt any less, though.

 

 

 

They drove for hours, north-west along rutted roads and roads with broken tarmac, pot-holed and uneven. From time to time snow fell, sideways slant against the car's streaked glass. Dean didn't turn the heat on, or if he did it didn't reach the back seat and Sam finally tugged one of the worn blankets over himself, huddling in. The blanket was Army-green wool, smelling of dog and wood smoke. Sam watched the dog and the dog watched him back and somewhere near Casper, Wyoming – as far as he could tell – Sam fell asleep.  
  
He woke with a jerk, reaching out in blind panic as the entire car seemed to buck up off the road. Dean was muttering under his breath, a steady string of curses as the road bottomed out into what appeared to be a dry streambed.  
  
"C'mon, baby, c'mon, c'mon, worst part's almost over, you know you can do it, God _damn_ you, Popeye, you old bastard, would it kill you to grade your fucking road? C'mon, c'mon, there we go..." The car labored up a rise, whining, and then just as suddenly the road smoothed out and they sailed downhill again, the headlights showing a red dirt road with washboards of snow in the ruts.  
  
Sam pushed himself straighter in the seat, shoving the blanket aside and rubbing his fingers back through his hair, trying to wake himself up. Sam-the-dog was sitting up in the seat, tongue hanging, and spared Sam a disinterested glance over one silky-black shoulder. Sam-dog was some sort of Shepherd mix, with fringed ears and a thick ruff. He reared back and put his paws on the dash, making a low, rumbly bark and Dean reached over and tangled his fingers in the ruff, tugging and scrubbing.  
  
"Almost there, Sammy."  
  
"Almost where?" Sam asked, and Dean jerked his hand off the dog's neck, surprised.  
  
"Where we're going. I need to restock, and they're always good for the basics." The car slowed as Dean turned, easing them over a wide expanse of cattle-guard. "These people trust me. Don't fuck this up."  
  
"I know how to behave, Dean," Sam muttered, and Dean made a snorting noise.  
  
"You better," Dean muttered, and then fell silent, concentrating on getting them over a low, concrete bridge that spanned a rocky ditch. The wind had picked up, blowing hard enough to rock the heavy car on its shocks. The land all around them was treeless, as far as Sam could tell – there was no moon, and no lights at all until they crested a small rise. Below them was the dim glow of fire, what looked like the flame of a lantern. Sam sat forward, watching it, and Sam-dog dropped his paws back to the seat, tail thumping against the back.  
  
They drove into a shallow valley and Sam could finally make out a two-story clapboard house sheltering in the lee of a line of cottonwood trees. A lantern was burning in the window and Dean stopped the car in a graveled patch by the porch. He turned off the car and twisted in his seat, looking back at Sam.  
  
"Don't say anything about – anything. Just let me talk. And your name's Sam Winter."  
  
"Sure, okay." Dean pulled his keys from the ignition and slid out of the car and Sam got his own door open, struggling with it. The wind hit like a hammer, driving straight through jacket and jeans, making his ears and nose ache almost instantly from the cold. It was snowing, too – little spits of hard crystals that stung Sam's exposed skin. " _Jesus_!"  
  
Dean opened the back door and hauled out a duffel, spinning it across the roof of the car and into Sam. "Make yourself useful."  
  
Sam hitched the duffel up onto his shoulder, clenching his teeth to keep them from chattering. _*Not his brother, doesn't trust me, just...give him time...*_ Except Dean _was_ his brother. Everything screamed _Dean_ and _safe_ and _family_ , no matter the differences in the details. Sam had been with the angel for so long... He'd forgotten. Forgotten Dean in half a hundred ways; tiny things that all blurred away and were replaced, minute by minute, by _this_ Dean. Things slotting into Sam's memory as if they'd always been, and he was helpless to stop it – didn't even want to. He just wanted Dean.  
  
They walked, heads bent against the wind, not up onto the porch, but around the house instead, crossing a small yard and heading for another mote of lantern-light. There was snow on the ground but it was scoured nearly gone, packed to concrete hardness by the wind and the cold. Sam-dog darted around and around them until Dean whistled again.  
  
"Get going, Sammy," he said and the dog streaked away, panting. They came to a long, low building with a covered porch and steep roof, two mud-encrusted four-wheelers sitting in front of it. Dean climbed the porch steps and knocked. After a moment the door creaked open, spill of golden lamplight cutting across the muddy porch. The man standing inside was short, barrel-chested and bald, wearing jeans and a dingy-white tunic like a chef. He held a shotgun, the barrel slantwise across his chest.  
  
" _Deus_ " he said, his gaze flickering from Dean to Sam and back again. Sam tried not to move, shivering, blinking wind-tears out of his eyes and feeling the moisture drying in freezing rivulets on his cheeks.  
  
" _Deus est valde,_ " Dean replied. _'God is Great.'_ "Hey, Cook."  
  
"Winchester. It's damn late."  
  
"You're up, though," Dean said, hint of amusement in his voice, and the man – Cook – grunted.  
  
"Course I'm up. I'm always up." He stepped backwards, the barrel of the shotgun sinking a little and Dean went in.  
  
"Watch your step," he murmured, gaze flicking down and Sam saw the trough that had been carved into the threshold, gleaming-full of salt. He stepped carefully over it and Cook shut the door and for a moment it was like being deaf. The room was still and so warm – deliciously warm and Sam took in a few shuddering breaths, nose running now that he was inside. The place was mostly in shadow, but leftward, Sam could make out a couple of worn-out couches and battered tables and what looked like a pretty impressive entertainment system. To the right was a long table with benches down either side and beyond that a kitchen. There were no walls or dividers, just long, grey planks underfoot and rough plaster on the walls – exposed rafters and a few racks of deer antlers and antelope horns. Coats were hanging off some of them and the air was spicy with the smells of wood smoke, leather and hemp rope.  
  
Sam let Dean's duffle down onto the floor by a couch and went straight to the big, black-iron wood stove that purred against one wall, holding his hands out to the tangible waves of heat that rose off up of it. Dean was already there, rubbing his hands and undoing his coat – letting the heat in. A cast-iron pot was steaming gently on the back, letting out wafts of something savory. Cook settled his shotgun onto two pegs on the wall and joined them.  
  
"I guess you'll be wantin' something to eat, then?"  
  
"If you've got it to spare," Dean said, and Cook laughed softly.  
  
"Don't feed me that line, Winchester. You know I do. Wash up and sit down, there's stew."  
  
"Yes, sir." Dean shucked his coat, draping it over the end of the bench. Sam shed his own jacket and then joined Dean at a big stone sink against the porch-side wall. The hot water made Sam's fingers tingle and he hissed softly, flexing them to make the blood flow. Dean's elbow and shoulder bumped into Sam's and Sam worked intently at getting his nails clean, trying not to react. Trying not to just grab Dean and hold onto him for dear life. Dean didn't even seem to notice, just dried his hands and went to sit down. Sam dried his own hands and found a bandana in his pocket – wiped his nose and shoved his fingers back through his wind-knotted hair and then made his way to the table. God, he was hungry.  
  
"Who's your friend?" Cook asked, setting two steaming bowls in front of them.  
  
"Name's Sam Winter. Just – helping me out on a job over on the Greybull." Cook made a little 'mm-hmm' sort of sound, thumping down a cloth-wrapped loaf of bread and a plate with a crooked slab of hand-made butter. Sam tore off a hunk of bread and smeared butter on it – picked up a spoon. The stove put out a gentle heat at Sam's back and the stew was thick and savory, full of chunks of tender meat. He dragged the bread through the gravy and took a huge bite, eyes nearly shutting in total sensory bliss.  
  
Food, actual _food_ , that he hadn't needed or wanted in years. It was incredible – overwhelming – and he couldn't help the little noise of appreciation that groaned out from between his teeth. He reached for the tall glass of milk Cook had set down for him and stopped in mid-reach, his mouth full of bread and butter and stew. Dean and Cook were both staring at him, grins on their faces. He chewed and tried to swallow, mumbling around his mouthful. "What?"  
  
"You maybe wanna be alone with your supper?" Dean asked, and Cook made a low, mocking whistle.  
  
"I ain't never had anybody get _that_ excited over my cookin'," he chuckled, and Sam realized that maybe he'd gotten a little louder than he thought.  
  
"I...uh –" He swallowed the rest of his mouthful and drank a gulp of milk. "It's been...a while since I had something home-cooked."  
  
"Oh, aye." Cook scratched at his belly and wandered over to the stove. "The life of a hunter's hard, that's for sure." He shoved a couple of thin logs into the stove and clanged the door shut – came over and settled himself into the only real chair at the table. It had a deer hide thrown over it, and a dull-red glass ashtray in front of it. Cook dragged a leather pouch out of his pocket and started to roll a cigarette, his fingers quick and sure with the thin leaf of paper and crumbly tobacco. "My dad told me he'd knock me down and lock me in the cellar if I ever ran off to hunt."  
  
Sam almost choked on his stew at that, eyes going wide, but Dean didn't seem surprised. He was eating in that head-down, elbows-out manner he'd perfected at fifteen when Sam's appetite had kicked into overdrive and nothing edible was safe. Or...hell. This Dean hadn't had a brother at fifteen. God knows who, exactly, he'd learned to defend his food from.  
  
"Now, why would we want you out hunting when you can make food like this?" Dean asked, little smile on his face and Cook shook a match out of its box and struck it on the top of the table.  
  
"Flattery'll get you seconds," Cook said, grinning. He drew in a deep lungful of smoke. The tobacco was sweet – a little spicy. Much nicer than what Sam was used to and he got another piece of bread and tried to eat a little more slowly. "My dad died in aught-two. When that big plague happened. Guess there wasn't nothing anybody could have done about that."  
  
"There wasn't," Dean said. He stabbed a little too hard at a chunk of meat and ate it, frowning. "Some things even hunters can't kill."  
  
"I know that, Winchester," Cook murmured. He got up and dished Dean out some more stew – settled again, puffing slowly on his cigarette and then rolling himself a second one. When Sam was mopping the last of the gravy out of his bowl, Cook pushed himself to his feet with a sigh. "There's pie, if you want it. Apple or cherry."  
  
"Damnit, Cook – why didn't you say so before I had more stew?"  
  
"You know there's always pie, Winchester." Cook stuck his cigarette in the side of his mouth and went over to the corner of the kitchen, taking two pies out of a pie safe and plunking them down on the table. "You want cheese?"  
  
"Fuck yes," Dean said, hacking out a huge wedge of apple pie and dumping it into his scraped-clean bowl. He pushed the pie an inch or two toward Sam. "Pie?"  
  
"Uh – I'm gonna try the cherry."  
  
"More for me." Dean cut a bite of pie and then sat there, waiting, fork suspended in mid air. Cook rooted around in the big, stainless 'fridge for a minute and came back to the table with a cheese cloth bag in his hands. It was full of chunks of pale-white cheese and Dean took it with a pleased little sound. He shoved his forkful of pie into his mouth and then fished a piece of cheese out and ate it, too. Sam just watched, fascinated. His own Dean wouldn't have touched pie with cheese – he was an a la mode man.  
  
"Jesus, gonna choke yourself." Cook sounded pleased, though, and Dean grinned, his cheeks bulging.  
  
"S'sso f'ckin' gud..." Sam had to shake his head, laughing a little, as he got his own pie and fell to. The cherries were firm, sweet-tart and perfect, the crust flakey. It was heaven.  
  
When they were done – and Sam was actually feeling slightly sick from so much food – Cook gathered up plates and utensils, the stubby end of his cigarette still stuck in the corner of his mouth. "You know where the bunks are. We'll be up at five – puttin' a new fence in up at Crooked Tail creek. You up to finding the lines?"  
  
"Sure. I can do the blessing an' everything if you've got the stuff." Dean stretched tall, back bowing and his eyes going shut, jeans inching down and shirts pulling up. Baring a strip of pale belly, line of dark hair and the shadow of his hip. And Sam was suddenly hit, like a fist to the gut, with yet another long-lost sensation. Lust.  
  
 _*Oh, God, oh **fuck**... Not...now. Probably never.*_ That sobering thought was enough to make the sudden, heated rush of blood abate a little, and Sam gathered up his jacket, standing expectantly while Dean finished stretching and walked over to the door. He opened it and whistled, that same low-to-high call he'd used before. Then waited, the tips of his boots just behind the trough of salt. The cold air coiling through the doorway made Sam shiver. Cook was over at the sink, running water and humming to himself and Sam slumped against the back of the couch, yawning.  
  
A moment later there was the click of nails on ice and wood and then Sam-dog trotted through the door, neatly hopping over the trough and laughing up at Dean in that silent, open-mouthed way that dogs have. Dean shut the door, clicking the deadbolt over and then he bent down and rubbed Sam-dog's head all over, crooning to him.  
  
"You got a little something for a good dog to eat, Cook?"  
  
"Oh, I got a bone or two," Cook said, wiping his hands down the front of his tunic. He pulled a covered dish from the pie-safe and held out a meat-rich lump of bone – looked like half of a leg bone. Sam-dog looked at the bone and then at Dean, fringed tail waving madly.  
  
"Go get it, Sammy," Dean said, and the dog bounced happily to Cook – took the bone carefully and then went over to the corner by the stove. For the first time, Sam noticed a worn-looking Navajo-style blanket folded there, and he had to grin when the dog curled himself down onto it and put one paw on the bone, gnawing contentedly.  
  
"Thanks," Dean said, and Cook waved him off, going back to his dishes. Dean yawned hard, then he picked up his coat and swung his duffel up onto his shoulder – walked into the shadows at the other end of the room. Sam followed him, going quietly through a doorway and into a room with a wide, tall fireplace, embers and the tag-ends of logs smoldering like a bed of smoky rubies. There were bunks there, lost in shadow, and the soft, regular breathing of sleeping people. Dean dropped his duffel beside an empty bunk just inside the door – rummaged for a moment in a side pocket and pulled out a toothbrush. "They've got spares in the bathroom," he said quietly, and Sam nodded.  
  
The bathroom had a row of sinks and spotted mirrors and Sam glanced their way and then stopped altogether, staring. He was – he looked...  
  
"You look like shit. Is that your usual look?" Dean asked, squeezing paste onto his toothbrush and sticking it into his mouth.  
  
Sam shook his head slowly, not really answering just...denying. He did look like shit. He looked _old_ , although not in the wrinkles-and-grey-hair way. He just looked...worn out. Pale as paper, too thin, stubble and his hair longer – more ragged than ever. His eyes sunk deep into their sockets, his clothing hanging on him. _*No wonder Ellen was freaked. I look like a junkie or something. Like a fucking revenant. Jesus...* He_ was still there – he could see himself, like a strange, blurred image under his own skin. It was kind of creepy. Sam looked around and found a box full of new toothbrushes on a shelf – brushed his teeth and washed his face and stumbled back to his bunk. Dean heeled off his boots and stripped out of his clothes – pulled on ragged long-johns and thick socks and climbed into bed, leaving Sam standing foolishly at the foot of it, staring at him. He was suddenly – overwhelmingly – exhausted.  
  
"Aren't you gonna... Aren't we gonna talk?" he asked, the words blurred on his sleep-clumsy tongue and Dean huffed out a breath, exasperated.  
  
" _No_. I'm tired. Go to sleep, for fuck's sake. Tomorrow." Dean burrowed under the covers, back turned toward the room and Sam nodded owlishly – managed to get boots and jeans off and then just crawled inside his own bunk, snuggling into clean sheets and wool blankets, the pillow under his head soft but not too fluffy. He punched it once and then, like turning a page, was out.

 

 

 

It was a mark, Sam thought, of how long he'd been with the angel – how long he'd been alone. In the morning he actually felt _shy_ , surrounded by seven new faces and seven rough, drawling voices that all seemed to have something to say to him. Jostling for a place at the table, he kept his head down and ate and felt a little better when Dean deflected questions and got the ranch hands thinking about other things – telling stories and catching him up, making jokes about Sam-dog and the ranch's owner, Popeye.  
  
Sam just heaped his plate and ate, marveling at fried apples and onions, scrambled eggs with cheese and venison sausage and biscuits and gravy and pie. Everything tasted so fucking good, he felt like he could eat all day. Breakfast was over and coats were being pulled on when the door opened and Popeye himself – Mr. Segar – hobbled inside.  
  
He was bent and skinny and nearly crippled by arthritis, two blackthorn canes in his gnarled hands. His toothless mouth masticated the stem of a stubby pipe and wisps of gingery hair stuck out from under the wooly edge of his knitted cap. Sam had to bite his lip to keep from laughing.  
  
"Winchester – saw that boat of a car of yours. Gonna dowse me a line for my new fence, then?"  
  
"Yessir, Mr. Segar."  
  
"Good, good. What're you needing in trade, then?"  
  
"Basics, mostly. I've got some silver to trade. I need salt, some herbs – some of those beeswax candles the missus makes." Dean was winding a scarf around his neck, tucking the ends into the front of his over shirt.  
  
Popeye nodded, chewing, the pipe bobbing up and down, little puffs of smoke drifting up from it. "We can fix you up, boy. Who's this tall drink'a water, then?"  
  
Sam straightened under the gimlet gaze. "I'm Sam. Sam Winter. Just – I'm helping Dean on a job."  
  
"Got some _mih'ni_ along the Greybull River, maybe – gonna check it out," Dean explained.  
  
Popeye eyed Sam up and down, shifting stiffly on his canes. "Know about water spirits, then?"  
  
"Yessir."  
  
"Good, good. Mr. Freedman – you've got it all in hand, then?"  
  
"We're good to go, sir." Jeremiah Freedman was the foreman, a bulky black man with grey in his hair and a seamed network of scars all down the left side of his face and neck. "Just about to saddle up."  
  
"Good, good. Gentlemen – be careful."  
  
A chorus of 'yes, sir' followed Popeye's limping departure. Freedman turned around and clapped his hands together. "All right. Let's get our gear and get moving. Sun'll be up in half an hour and we've got work to do. Winter – you ever laid fence?"  
  
"I, uh –"  
  
"He's staying back," Dean interrupted, working his hand into a battered leather glove. "Cook's got some chores for him around here."  
  
"Cook?" Freedman lifted a scarred eyebrow and Cook nodded and Sam felt, for one moment, like he was seven and being told to go play, Dad and Dean had something _important_ to talk about. Even though the thought of digging post-holes in that wind made Sam shiver. Freedman took his coat down off a rack of deer antlers. "Good enough. Time's a wastin'." There was a general crush and confusion for a moment as everyone hurried to get wrapped up and out the door, the youngest hand – a rangy blond boy no older than nineteen – snatching a last piece of pie. Dean stepped up close to Sam, settling a knitted hat down over his ears.  
  
"You stay here and do what Cook says. Don't think you can sneak off, and don't think I forgot your...story. We'll talk tonight."  
  
"Dean, Jesus, I'm not gonna –"  
  
"Just shut up and do the work. I'm low on essentials or I wouldn't even be here. You're _not_ off the hook." Sam-dog was pushing between them, little grumbly snarl coming up out of his throat and Sam took a step back – nodded. Really – what else could he do?  
  
"Yeah, sure, whatever. I'm not your enemy, Dean."  
  
"You're not my brother, either." Dean stared at him for a long moment, his eyes nearly bottle-green in the lantern light, a faint blue shadow of stubble in the hollows of his cheeks. Scar across his lips that Sam wanted to ask about – wanted to _touch_ , God...wanted to know what _other_ scars – what other marks. What other life this Dean had had, alone with their father for so many years.  
  
The other men were out the door – clumping across the porch and down the stairs, and Dean gave a little nod to Cook and followed. Sam-dog sprinted ahead, letting out one joyous yap. Sam watched them go – turned to catch the speculative look Cook was giving him.  
  
"So –" Sam said, trying a little smile.  
  
Cook pulled out his tobacco pouch and started to roll a cigarette. "So. Ever split wood?"  
  
  
  
Sam let the axe in his hands fall with a soft _thunk_ to the ground. He wiped his forehead on his sleeve, the borrowed sheepskin coat smelling like gun oil and cedar, soft and rough at the same time. The L of bunkhouse and storage building was stacked high with chunks of sawn logs that Sam was methodically breaking down into smaller pieces. It was harder work than he remembered, and his shoulders and belly ached from the weight of wood and the swing of the axe.  
  
But he felt – good. Felt like he was filling out his skin – waking himself up. Felt like all that time with the angel, falling in and out of the lives of other selves was only a dream. A space of greyness and loneliness that he never, ever wanted to go back into. Not if he could stay.  
  
He went over to the half-cord that was already stacked along the bunk house wall and retrieved the thermos that Cook had sent him out with. It was full of honey sweetened tea and he drank two cups before screwing the lid back on and going to manhandle another piece of wood off the haphazard pile. He was just picking up the axe again when Cook opened the back kitchen door.  
  
"Grub's on, Winter. Better c'mon in."  
  
"Awesome. What about – everybody else?"  
  
"They're on their way in – hear that?" Cook tipped his head a little, listening, and after a moment Sam thought he could hear something over the wind. Sam-dog barking, he was pretty sure. "Bring some wood in," Cook added, and shut the door. Sam knocked a little mess of snow and wood-chips off the head of the axe and put it on top of the woodpile for later. He stacked his arms full of split logs and snagged the thermos, then kicked lightly at the door. A moment later Cook opened it up and Sam stomped his shoes clean and went inside.  
  
Wood on the woodpile, thermos on the sink and hands washed, Sam stepped out onto the front porch, shivering in just his shirtsleeves. From the west came more barking and then a rhythmic thumping that it took a moment to recognize. Hooves – horse's hooves. Sam watched as a string of horses came around the corner of the barn, snow caught in their manes, their riders huddled down over their necks. Sam-dog was running to and fro like he was herding sheep and sharp gesture from one man – had to be Dean – sent him skimming across the ice-dotted yard to the bunkhouse.  
  
"Hey, boy – hey...Sammy," Sam said, feeling foolish. Sam-dog sniffed at his outstretched hand and nosed it briefly, then turned and focused his attention on the horses. Everyone dismounted and someone swung the barn door open, holding it against the wind as horses and riders filed inside. The last man went in, too, and shut the door.  
  
"They'll be a little bit yet," Cook said, startling him, and Sam turned. "They gotta un-tack 'em and rub 'em down – give 'em some'a that warm mash I made. Best come inside."  
  
"Yeah, okay. C'mon, Sammy. You want to eat?" Sam-dog looked back and forth for a moment and then trotted inside, and Sam went in, too, happy to be out of the cold.  
  
  
The second half of the day was a repeat of the first and Sam was exhausted by the time Cook called him in for dinner. The rest of the men filed in in a blue twilight, still joking and talking but subdued. Worn out from a day spent setting fence posts and stringing wire. Even with a machine to help, it was hard work, and the cold and constant wind seemed to just drain you flat. Sam sat down with a wince and a sigh, feeling every muscle in his back protest.  
  
There were chop steaks with a thick vegetable broth ladled over them, roasted potatoes and more bread and blackberry cobbler. Everyone ate in near-silence, but the coffee and tea after seemed to perk them up and Cook and two others rolled cigarettes and talked while the rest moved onto the couches and started a low-voiced debate over what movie to watch. It was barely six o'clock but Sam felt ready to just burrow into his bunk and not come out until morning.  
  
Dean had other ideas, though.  
  
"Hey, Cook – I'm gonna go get my re-stock. Popeye say anything?"  
  
"Nah – he knows you won't short us. Take what you need. He said there's a book along in with the silver that you might want."  
  
"Great." Dean finished doing up his coat and shot a look at Sam. "C'mon, Winter."  
  
 _*Hell. Just wanna sleep...*_ "Sure, yeah..." Sam hauled himself up off the bench and into his borrowed coat and hat – followed Dean out into the thick, iron cold of the night. A faint purple lingered along the horizon but the yard itself was dark, only light from the house and bunkhouse showing in the whirl of icy snow. Dean went to his car first and pulled a clanking canvas hold-all from the trunk, then they both trudged back to the barn, slipping inside via a smaller door that was off to one side.  
  
The barn was warm – lit by the first electric light Sam had seen. The air was thick with the smell of wet wool and damp horse, hay and straw and grain and manure. A black and white cat blinked owlishly at them from the top of a hay bale and Dean walked down the center aisle, stopping for a moment to murmur to the bright bay horse-head that poked out over the stall door.  
  
"I didn't know you could... I've never seen you ride a horse," Sam said, and Dean rubbed the horses' nose one last time and stepped away, heading for what looked like a workbench at the back of the barn.  
  
"Comes with the job. Can't always rely on roads or gas, either." Dean dropped the hold-all onto the bench and unzipped it – started pulling out piece after piece of tarnished silver. Plates, a couple candlesticks, some fancy utensils and what looked like a sugar bowl and creamer.  
  
"Where'd you get that?" Sam asked, and Dean shot him a look.  
  
"Found it in this house up near Detroit."  
  
"You mean you _stole_ it?"  
  
Dean stopped in his examination of a silver soup spoon. "The people were dead, man. Not like they needed it. Silver bullets don't come from the Bullet Fairy, you know?"  
  
"Yeah, I know, but – Jesus, Dean!"  
  
Dean dropped the spoon and grabbed a handful of Sam's coat – shoved him backward so he sat down, hard, on a hay bale. "Shut up. Empty house, dead people – we take what we need and move on. You should know that."  
  
"I _don't_ know that," Sam said, craning his neck to look up at Dean, and Dean crossed his arms and leaned back against the workbench, looking down at him.  
  
"Then tell me what you _do_ know. Tell me who the fuck you really are and why you think you're my brother."  
  
"I _am_ your brother."  
  
"Prove it."

 

 

It took a while, to tell Dean everything. Sam had somehow lost his ability to tell a linear story and he found himself backtracking all over the place, giving Dean useless details about the life he'd never lived. About his first hunt and his first girl and the first time he'd driven the Impala – the first time he'd stood up to their dad. While Sam talked, Dean sorted the silver he'd brought – left a half-dozen choice pieces in a box under the workbench and then loaded up his mostly empty hold-all with boxes and boxes of ammo. Most of it was re-loads; brass shells re-packed with gunpowder and iron and slotted into worn boxes; marked with crosses or runes or gleaming slickly with holy oils.  
  
He moved slower, though, as Sam got to the part about the demon. About the Colt, and their dad – about the deal that had started it all. By the time Sam was telling Dean about his _own_ deal – telling him in a wobbly voice about his own Dean dying, Dean was sitting on the hay bale next to him, rough-knuckled hands dangling between his knees, head bowed. Gaze fixed on the muddy floor or his muddy boots – on his own hands, the ring on his finger, _*...the same, that's the same...*_ worrying it with a chipped thumb nail.  
  
"This is the first time I've ever just...stopped. It's never been like this before. I've always had something to do. Some way to help." Sam paused, rubbing his hand over his face – over stubble that was finally starting to grow. Struggling to stifle the yawn that threatened to unhinge his jaw. "I don't know...what to do."  
  
Dean didn't respond for a long moment, motionless except for the slow back-and-forth of his thumb across the ring. Finally he stirred – took a deep breath. "He really...made a deal? For my – for your Dean's life? Died for him?"  
  
"Yeah. Yeah, he did. God, you were...Dean was so mad. So fucking mad. Dad meant – everything to him."  
  
"Yeah." Dean sighed – looked away, his hand coming up to rub back through his hair. "Yeah."  
  
Sam watched Dean scan the workbench – kick at a clump of mud and hay on the weathered floor boards and felt a sick coldness creeping into his gut. "Dean? Is Dad – is he alive, here? Is he?"  
  
Dean stood abruptly, shoulders coming up around his ears, practically. "No, he's not."  
  
"Oh." Even to his own ears, Sam's voice sounded ridiculously small – ridiculously lost. _*Dad's been gone for so long...it shouldn't hurt so much. Shouldn't still fucking hurt...*_  
  
Dean turned sharply, his expression cold – almost cruel. "He died when I was fifteen. He fucking...blamed himself for Sam dying, he blamed _me_... It was a trap, we were the bait and it was suppose to fucking _work_ but the fucker went for Sam instead of me and I – I didn't –" Dean lashed out suddenly, driving his fist into the warped boards that served as a divider of sorts between the workbench area and the stalls. One cracked under his fist, dry snap, and he stood there, shoulders hunched.  
  
 _*Bait? Jesus...Christ. Dad would never... God, what happened, what – made him...*_ "Dean, I –"  
  
"Just shut up," Dean muttered. He let his fist fall back to his side and Sam saw the smudge of blood on the dusty grey of the board.  
  
"Fuck – are you okay?" He pushed himself to his feet, reaching for Dean who flinched away, hard. "Your hand –"  
  
"It's fine." Dean snatched up the hold-all – gestured to a stack of burlap feed sacks that were filled with salt. Already starting to walk away. "Grab three of those. We're out of here before sun-up."  
  
"Hey – _hey_!" Sam stepped in front of Dean – used his height to loom in the way, forcing Dean to stop his head-long flight or mow Sam down. Dean let the hold-all drop again, head going down in that 'I'm gonna deck you' posture. "I _told_ you everything. I've got some questions, too, Dean."  
  
"What the hell do you want to know?" Dean shifted on his feet, not meeting Sam's gaze. Bloodied hand clenching against his thigh. "You wanna know what my life was like, growing up? You wanna know what it was like to see – to see you... _fuck_!" His fist lashed out again, splintering the same board and Sam winced. And got right up into Dean's face – into his space. Forgetting that this Dean wasn't _that_ Dean and that he could get a black eye or worse for this. Working on instinct, impossible to ignore.  
  
Sam reached out, catching Dean's fist and pulling it toward himself – forcing Dean to pivot on his feet, following. Sam cupped Dean's battered hand in his own, breathing in gun-oil and leather and sweat. Familiar and comforting. Old scars were visible under the fresh smear of blood, little cross-hatchings and one bigger one, crooked and raised. Sam's thumb rubbed gently along the ridge of it, unthinking – automatic. Lifted his gaze to Dean's, the heat of their bodies mingling. "I'm sorry," he all but whispered. Talking past the ache in his throat. The longing. "I know it sounds crazy but it's _true_. I'm your brother and...and there has to be a reason I'm here. That I stopped. There has to."  
  
Dean met Sam's gaze for a long moment, emotions that Sam couldn't identify crossing his features. Finally, Dean slowly tugged his hand free and Sam let him, even though at that moment he'd have given anything to pull Dean closer. To just _hold on_. Feel that familiar, stubborn heartbeat against his own.  
  
"You figure that – that angel sent you here on purpose? You think it knows something?"  
  
"It...has to. I mean – doesn’t it?"  
  
Dean sighed – scrubbed his wounded hand back through his hair, wincing a little. "Yeah. Yeah, I guess it does." He edged past Sam, press of shoulder and hip. "Here." Dean hauled up a bag of salt and pushed it into Sam's hands – helped him balance it on his right shoulder. "There's only one man I know that can talk to angels." Another bag on the other shoulder, and Sam staggered a little – leaned gratefully into the momentary pressure of Dean's hand, steadying him.  
  
"Yeah? Who's that?"  
  
Dean slung a third bag onto his own shoulder and snatched up the hold-all of ammo and silver. "Bobby Singer."  
  
  
  
They left as they came, in darkness and hard wind, the scour of frozen crystals changed overnight to fat, sticky flakes that made Dean curse, hunched over the wheel and fighting the treacherous drift of his tires. Sam was in the back seat again, feeling vaguely put out and a little bit nauseated, stuffed full of brown-sugar pancakes and venison sausage. Dean had a brown paper parcel full of more sausages in the trunk for Bobby.  
  
A Bobby who wouldn't know Sam – a Bobby who would be _different_. Sam was excited and depressed by turns and eventually dozed off, waking with an undignified flail to the cold press of Sam-dog's nose on his neck.  
  
"Wake up, sunshine," Dean called cheerfully, opening his door and standing up out of the car. Sam pushed the wet nose away and scrubbed his neck with his shirt-collar – shuddered at the blast of snow-thick air, wishing for the coat he'd left behind with Cook. Sam-dog scrabbled back across the seatback and out, barking. Another bark answered him, low and rough.  
  
Sam untangled his feet from the coil of rope in the foot well and pushed his own door open – stood up, squinting. The wind was blowing steadily, driving the wet flakes into the back of Sam's neck and down his collar. The clouds overhead were a dull pewter that lightened to silver where the invisible sun struggled to shine through. All around them – on every side – were cars. Crushed flat and stacked one on top of the other, fastened together by lengths of chain or cable. They formed walls that fanned away into the haze, black and rust and dirty silver and Sam gaped at them for a moment before shutting the door and hurrying after Dean.  
  
Bobby's house sat in the middle of it all, peeling blue paint and chipped white trim, rows of old hubcaps bleeding tears of rust down one wall. A bulky Rottweiler stood at the top of the porch stairs, stubby tail wagging at Sam-dog, who was acting the fool in the falling snow, snapping at the clumps of flakes and skidding through small drifts.  
  
"That dog of yours don't got a lick of sense," a voice said, and Sam looked up – Bobby.  
  
 _*He looks the same. Same beard. Same face. Same fuck-ugly hat.*_ Sam wanted to grin – wanted to walk right up and slap the man on the back. It was a moment before he noticed that Bobby was balanced on one foot, crutches tucked up under his armpits. Not _hurt_ , because the right leg of his jeans was empty, folded and pinned up neatly to the back of his thigh. Maimed – altered. _*Fuck, oh fuck...*_  
  
"He's one'a yours, Bobby – what's that say about you?" Dean was halfway up the stairs, tired grin on his face, and Bobby snorted.  
  
"Means you spoiled him since he was a pup, and you know it. Friend of yours, there?" Bobby nodded at Sam and Sam realized Bobby had a gun in his hand – that the Rottweiler hadn't budged to greet either Dean or Sam-dog and Sam stopped dead in the yard, looking at Dean.  
  
Dean looked back at him, an expression of baffled irritation on his face, so _Dean_ it made Sam's chest hurt.  
  
"He's...ah, hell, Bobby. He says he's my brother."  
  
  
Inside was a lot the same. The same Sam-tall stacks of books shoved three-deep against the walls, the same ancient rugs showing the warp and woof on the most-walked paths. The same curling blossoms of Devil's traps on the ceilings and walls and – looking carved in – the floors. Bobby watched Sam cross them with his eyes squinted in concentration and then settled himself into a duct-tape patched office chair on wheels.  
  
 _That_ was different, as was the long table littered with computer parts and two whole, working systems. They had the same sort of cobbled-together look that Sam remembered from Ash's computer, ages ago, and Bobby pushed his crutches into the corner between table and book-stack and eyed Sam up and down.  
  
"Sam Winchester died –"  
  
"When he was six. I know. I'm not _him_ , I'm...another Sam."  
  
Bobby stared a little harder, lips pursed. "Huh. Wanna beer?"  
  
"Not really. How about a shot of holy water, straight up?"  
  
Dean chuckled from his stance over against the door-jamb and Bobby shot him a disgusted look. "Been telling him my secrets?"  
  
"No way, Bobby. He says he knows from the – from where he comes from. His own Bobby."  
  
Bobby looked interested and affronted at the same time, as if the thought of him not being _the_ Bobby Singer was an insult. Sam stifled the insane urge to giggle. He was feeling a little punchy. Bobby gestured toward a rickety ladder-back chair that was sitting opposite him. "Boy, you better sit down and tell me the whole tale. Dean – get him his shot."  
  
Sam sat carefully down in the chair, wary of splinters. The thing looked one incautious flop from disintegration.  
  
"He's not a demon, Bobby," Dean said, but he poured out a measure of water into a chipped shot glass and put it in Sam's hand – headed toward the front door. "Cook sent some venison sausage and Popeye had a book you might like to see. Got anything to eat?"  
  
"There's stuff in the kitchen, you know where to look." Bobby watched as Sam downed the holy water – it was tepid and flat-tasting – and then leaned back in his chair. It creaked alarmingly. "Tell me everything... _Sam_."  
  
Sam sighed – took a breath – and did.

 

 

For the second time in as many days, Sam found himself stacking wood in the snow, but it wasn't so bad. It felt good to move – felt good to _do_ something, after sitting and answering Bobby's questions for three solid hours. Going over every detail of his life, his deal and Dean's and his time with the angel.  
  
None of it had seemed to make Bobby all that happy, and he'd been muttering about 'damn Winchesters' and 'damn angels' under his breath when Sam had snagged the extra coat hanging by the back door and followed Dean out into the snow. Dean had watched him telling Bobby his life's story as if listening to a fairly unbelievable, mostly entertaining story. Sam chose to ignore the times when Dean had looked as if he'd been punched in the gut; breathless and stunned, eyes wet.  
  
Bobby usually had help, it seemed, but his help was off in Rapid City getting supplies, so it was up to Sam and Dean to haul in wood and feed the dogs – make sure the ram pump that supplied water to the house was running smoothly. Bobby had a forest of those triple-bladed windmills in his back field, whirring lazily through the thickening snow-fall. Where he gets the power for the computers, Dean said. That and the tankless water-heater, because even Bobby, it seemed, was a sucker for a good, hot shower.  
  
When Dean lifted the lid off a galvanized garbage can on the back porch and clanged it against the side of the can, a pack of twelve or so dogs – including Sam-dog – came running from all directions. Sam scooped food into a series of rusty bowls as Dean rubbed their snow-damp heads and called them names. Sam-dog put his paws up on Sam's thigh for a moment and Dean looked a little pissed, but it made Sam grin, feeling a little smug and a little relieved at the same time. He got the feeling that if Sam-dog didn't like him, Dean maybe never would, either.  
  
Sam watched Dean comb a knot of ice out of Sam-dogs fur – watched him push the lid down onto the garbage can and pick up the broom that was propped next to it, brushing at the snow that had accumulated on the uneven steps that led down from the porch. Watching that familiar, unfamiliar face, lost in memories.  
  
"So, what, that some kind of trance thing you got going or am I just that pretty?" Dean said, little smirk twisting his mouth and Sam felt his face flush hot with embarrassment.  
  
"No! I mean –"  
  
"No I'm not pretty?" Dean said, and Sam could swear to God he pouted.  
  
"What? Yeah, you – I mean – _no_ –" Dean started laughing and Sam scooped a handful of snow off the railing and tossed it at him. "Shut up, you jerk."  
  
Dean sputtered a moment, snow in his mouth and caught in his lashes, staring in shock at Sam. Then he grinned, and it was that old, evil grin that had meant trouble for Sam since they were both kids. "Oh, you _bitch_. It's so on." Sam didn't even have time to duck.  
  
Twenty minutes later they were both soaked, snow-covered and out of breath, skidding through the drifts in the yard, tripping over buried junk and the dogs, dodging snow balls and the occasional icicle. Sam-dog, in particular, was barking in hysterical abandon, leaping up to try and catch snowballs and tackling Dean to the ground three times, fringed tail waving furiously.  
  
"Damnit, you stupid dog, you're gonna make me lose!" Dean growled, grabbing Sam-dog by the ruff and shaking him, grinning into the panting, black-furred face.  
  
"Get him, boy! Get him!" Sam yelled, frantically packing a snowball and trying to evade two mixed-breed dogs of Bobby's who seemed intent on eating whatever he picked up.  
  
"What in _hell_ is wrong with you boys! You're gonna get the pneumonia!" Bobby was standing on the top step, glaring in disapproval. "You dogs, git! Go patrol!" The dogs disengaged, trotting away across the yard and into the haze, heading for the smashed-car walls. Sam-dog waited, panting, until Dean sent him off with a hand-wave.  
  
"Damn. You've really got 'em well trained, Bobby," Sam said. He surreptitiously tried to lob his last snowball at Dean, but it fell short.  
  
"The same obviously can't be said for the two of you. It's lunch time." Bobby turned and stumped back into the house and Sam started brushing snow off his arms, shivering a little. Dean pushed himself up off the ground, groaning.  
  
"Fuck. I think I fell on a damn engine block or something. Shit." He flexed his knee and grimaced – limped up onto the porch, stomping his feet and shaking the snow out of his hair.  
  
"Guess we pissed him off, huh?" Sam asked, and Dean snorted.  
  
"Bobby? Hell no. Fuck, when I was a kid, he always had a crowd here. Orphans and runaways and every kind of lost boy or girl. Hell – Ellen sent Jo here for a summer or two when she was gettin' too big for her britches. Bobby's everybody's uncle."  
  
"Oh. Oh, well that's...kinda surprising."  
  
"Yeah?" Dean looked surprised and then considering – took off his coat and shook it, a hard snap. "Your Bobby not...like that?"  
  
"No, he... Well, he wasn't – mean or anything, just... Kind of the confirmed bachelor type, you know? He didn't mind when Dad took us there but...no way he would have let us stay all summer."  
  
"Huh." Dean looked at his coat and shrugged – reached for the door, pulling it open and giving his boots one more hard stamp. "Bobby pretty much saved my life, when Dad...when he died."  
  
"Really?" Sam shed his own coat and carried it over the threshold and into the back hall – hung it up where he'd found it and copied Dean by taking off his soaked sneakers. His socks were wet, too, and his jeans to the knee, and there was an icy trickle of melting snow trailing down his sternum.  
  
"You boys go get some dry clothes!" Bobby called. The thick, savory smells of soup and fresh baked bread were coming from the kitchen and Sam's mouth was watering. He gave Dean a helpless look.  
  
"I don't have, uh... I don't have any other clothes."  
  
"I wondered what that smell was," Dean muttered, hopping on one leg to pull a sock off.  
  
Bobby appeared in the kitchen doorway, looking exasperated. "Jesus Christ. There's some stuff upstairs, Dean knows where."  
  
"Hey, thanks Bobby –"  
  
"Double time!" Bobby snapped and Dean grabbed Sam's arm and hauled him out of the hallway and up the narrow back stairs.  
  
"Jeez, just trying to say thanks."  
  
"He doesn't wanna hear thanks." Dean led the way to a small room on the south side of the house, picking up a lantern and lighting it on the way – hanging it on a hook just inside the door. Sam remembered the room from when they'd been kids, poking through the haphazard junk that Bobby had stuck inside. Old fans with broken blades and string-less tennis rackets, sheets of mildew-spotted music and a rotting accordion. This Bobby had three big dressers full of clothes, as well as a sagging clothes-line hung with shirts, jeans, coats and jackets. The sizes ranged from kid stuff to adult, boys and girls and Sam just stood there in the doorway, staring at it all.  
  
"Wow."  
  
"It's just rotting on the shelves otherwise," Dean said, picking through a drawer full of sweatpants. "Probably doesn't have any jeans to fit your lanky ass." Dean tossed a pair of sweats at Sam and Sam caught them absently, looking at the ranks of little t-shirts and the line of boots and sneakers against one wall. "Here, this too...and socks..." Dean tossed a thermal shirt and a flannel at Sam, too, then lobbed a brand-new package of socks at him. "You'll have to get underwear yourself – you're probably one of those tighty-whitey wearers," Dean smirked, waving Sam toward another open drawer. "I'm gonna go change."  
  
"Yeah, okay. Dean, hey –" Sam reached out and put his hand on Dean's arm, stopping him in the doorway. Dean's flannel shirt was damp under Sam's hand – chilly. "Dean, I wanted to ask you... How did – how did Dad die?" Dean shivered under his fingers – took a half-step away, his back connecting with the door jamb. All the animation had bled out of his face and his eyes were dark. Shadowed by old pain and Sam wished he hadn't asked. "Man, I'm sorry, I – don't –"  
  
"No, it's...it's not like every hunter doesn't know. Common knowledge. He never...got over you dying. Never got better. Got so much...fuckin' worse after that. We never stopped, you know? For the next fucking...five years we never...stopped." Dean shook his head – lifted it, finally, looking Sam in the face. Shoving his hands into his pockets, shoulders hunching. "He was drinking a lot, and I was trying to keep him...straight, you know, and....a demon got him. Possessed him. We lucked out 'cause I got it trapped, got it caught between salt and iron and I was...gonna exorcise it, for what that's worth but..." Dean blinked hard – took a sharp, shaky breath and let his head tip back, knocking it gently into the scarred jamb behind him. "It was out to gut as many hunters as it could. Before I could – get it outta Dad, it made him shoot himself. Cold iron round to the head." Sam winced, hard, his stomach curdling into a cold knot and Dean laughed softly, pushing away from the jamb and taking a step out of the room – pulling away from Sam's hand. "It said he'd been thinking about it a lot – for years. Said the wrong son died – he could have stood it if only you'd lived instead of me."  
  
"Demons _lie_ , Dean, you know they lie, come on –"  
  
"Yeah, I know, Sam." Dean shook his head again and his eyes glittered in the lantern-light, gold flecks in muddy green, melted snow or maybe tears making his lashes stick together, shreds of black satin. "They lie, they tell the truth, they twist everything up like a fucking corkscrew. Doesn't matter. I knew he wanted to be dead with you and Mom. He was just...just sticking around until he knew I could make it on my own. Making sure I knew enough, you know? He cared that much, at least."  
  
"Dean, no –" Sam reached automatically, wanting to pull Dean close – to wrap around him and just hold on – _show_ him, God, that he was worth so much more than the lackadaisical, faltering attentions of a man who'd given up. Given in.  
  
Dean flinched away from his hand – took a step backward and then another, visibly shoving every emotion – every reaction – down behind iron bars – locked doors. " _Your_ John Winchester, Sam. Your Dean. Not me. Not – mine. It's – it's okay." He took another breath – turned around, ignoring Sam's attempt to reply. "Bobby hates to keep food waiting. Hurry up."  
  
Then he was gone, up to the room he claimed as his, third floor, and Sam felt his knees go and he slid down to the floor, the socks falling out of his arms, the shirts bunching against his chest. Sickness like a knife to his gut, his throat aching with words unsaid – tears unshed. It took him ten minutes to get back on his feet and out of his wet clothes – five more to force himself back down to the kitchen. Bobby and Dean were both already there, eating and talking and ignoring him completely and Sam forced the soup and bread down a throat that barely wanted to swallow.  
  
Later, in the blue-ice twilight before dusk, he and Dean went out to the barn and fed the goats and the chickens and the two huge Missouri mules – pumped the trough full of water and tossed fresh hay into the pens without a word. Bobby had grudgingly hooked up his ancient washing machine and showed Sam how to use the power wringer that was attached to its side. Now his and Dean's clothing was steaming gently on a line behind the stove, dry by morning, if they were lucky.  
  
As they finished up in the barn and were heading back toward the house, Sam stopped in the carriage-tall doorway. Gritting his teeth and close to shaking because he just couldn't say – nothing. Dean made an irritated noise and tried to step around him and Sam swung around, hands coming out of his pockets and knotting in Dean's coat. Pushing Dean back into the door because he just _knew_ , if he didn't pin Dean down and make him listen, he wouldn't get two words out.  
  
Dean's reaction was a hunter's reaction, arms coming up to knock Sam's apart and off him, feet planted wide for balance and Sam stepped _into_ it, thigh between Dean's and his hip knocking painfully into Dean's hip, chest to chest and his forearms on Dean's shoulders, hands tangled in the leather collar.  
  
"Fuck, you bastard –"  
  
"Dean, _stop_. I just want you to listen to me." Dean surged up against him, wiry strength that was a lot like Sam's own Dean. Body under his a little thinner – more whipcord and bone, less dense muscle. "Just - _listen_."  
  
"Hell of a fuckin' way to ask," Dean gritted, fingers digging into Sam's shoulders, trying to wrench him away.  
  
"You never listen unless I _make_ you listen. Just – _Dean_. Listen. Just listen. It's _not_ okay, Dean. It's not okay that he gave up. It's not okay that he didn't fight for you, too. It's not – it's just not fucking _okay_. You're worth more than that, Dean. You're worth a whole fucking lot more than that. You always were."  
  
Dean's eyes were wide, bottle-green and moss, gold and brown. Lashes so long they made shadows and the high, sharp curve of his cheekbone catching the last of the light, a soft blue sheen on his winter-pale skin. He looked like a ghost – like a spirit, barely real, and Sam swayed forward a fraction of an inch, wanting with everything in him to kiss life and color and _love_ into Dean's chapped mouth. Into his worn-thin soul.  
  
"I'm not – I'm not him. I'm _not_ your brother."  
  
"Maybe not by blood but you _are_. You're my brother in all the ways that matter and he was worth _everything_. He was worth my fucking life, and you are, too. You are _too_."  
  
Dean didn't say anything for a long moment, just hung there, pinned against the barn door, his hands going slowly lax on Sam's shoulders – curving around in something closer to a caress. Shaking from the cold, or from Sam's words – from his proximity, maybe, Sam couldn't tell.  
  
"You have to believe me, Dean. You just...you have to, okay? You have to."  
  
"Yeah, sure, Sammy, sure. I believe you," Dean said, his voice cracking just a little and Sam sighed – felt himself slumping down, his hold loosening, and Dean pushed him gently away. "I'll get right on that," he muttered, and Sam let him go. Closed the barn door and waded through the snow after Dean, avoiding Bobby's unhappy look when Dean went away upstairs without a word.  
  
"You boys fight?" Bobby asked, and Sam slumped down in a blanket-draped recliner, pushing his cold feet toward the fireplace.  
  
"No, we didn't fight. He told me about how his dad died."  
  
"Oh, hell." Bobby sighed – pushed his chair away from the computer table, groping in the bottom drawer of a file cabinet. "What in hell he'd do that for?"  
  
"I asked him," Sam said, and Bobby shot him a hard look, fishing shot glasses and a bottle out of the drawer.  
  
"What'd you do a damn-fool thing like that for?"  
  
"I just – I wanted to know. It's fucked up, Bobby."  
  
"I know that. That boy about near killed his own self, after that happened. Took him a year to settle down enough to come here and then I had keep sneakin' parts outta the car to _keep_ the little shit here. He worked through it, eventually." Bobby poured two healthy shots and Sam levered himself up from the recliner and took one – held it in his hand, looking down at the dark amber liquid.  
  
"It's not true, is it? That Dad – that his dad wanted to die?"  
  
Bobby sighed – capped the bottle. "I dunno. John went off the rails, from what I hear, when that Mary of his died. Acted like a crazy man about half the time. Didn't give those boys much leash and he put way too much on Dean. After Sammy died, well... It was like a little slice of Hell in that Chevy, most times. I figure maybe it was puttin' him out of his misery, when he died."  
  
"But not Dean's," Sam said, and Bobby shook his head slowly, looking up at him.  
  
"Nope. Not Dean's at all." The whiskey burned like fire, going down. Burned like loneliness and heartbreak and bitter, bitter failure. It made Sam choke, and cough until he cried. At least, that's what he told himself.

 

 

Sam woke abruptly some time later, slouched sideways in the recliner and his head throbbing gently – his mouth dry. Bobby was still in his chair, a lantern burning brightly next to him. He was upright – tense – and Sam finally realized what had woken him. It was the dogs, barking.  
  
 _More_ than barking. Going insane, it seemed, out in the yard. Hysterical ululations that made the hair rise on the back of Sam's neck. He pushed himself to his feet, dizzy for a moment, and took one hesitant step toward the door.  
  
"Don't," Bobby said, his voice whip-crack sharp.  
  
"What is it? Bobby –"  
  
Bobby was standing up, balancing easily on his crutches, his mouth set in a hard line. "I think we'd better just get down cellar. No knowing what they'll make of you."  
  
"They who?" The endless howling from the dogs was getting on Sam's nerves in a way that felt uncomfortably like panic. His heart was pounding and his hands were shaking and he was pretty sure if Bobby didn't tell him what the _fuck_ was going on, he was gonna start yelling. _*Jesus. Get a hold of yourself. Just – calm. Calm down. Where's Dean...*_ "Bobby, what's going on?"  
  
"I'll tell you later," Bobby said, swinging past him toward the kitchen. There was a thump and the slam of a door and then Dean was there, bringing the cold in with him. Snow caught in his hair and his lashes – on the shoulders of his coat and the scarf that was wrapped around his throat.  
  
"Dean! Jesus, what's going on?"  
  
Dean was breathing a little hard, two spots of color in his cheeks and he flashed a sharp-edged, manic grin at Sam. Terrified, and curbing it hard. "You wanna know? Get your coat."  
  
"Dean, I don't think –"  
  
"What – you think he'll call 'em or something? Think he's in danger?"  
  
"In danger from _what_?" Sam muttered, but they ignored him.  
  
"I don't know what I think," Bobby snapped, then sighed, shifting on his foot and the rubber-tipped ends of the crutches. "I don't think takin' him outside is a good idea."  
  
"Your wards'll hold, Bobby. You know they will." Dean turned his head sharply as Sam stepped closer to him. "You're not scared, are you Sam?"  
  
Sam stared at Dean for a long moment, _remembering_ this. Remembering those words – that challenge – that this Dean had probably never made. "Course I'm fucking scared, Dean. I know what's out there in the dark."  
  
"You don't know the half of it," Dean said – turned and stalked out of the room and Sam followed, shrugging a little at Bobby's shake of the head. He snatched his coat and hat off the pegs by the door and got them on, following Dean out and into the blast of ice-fanged wind that hit as soon as they got off the porch. The dog's howling was louder – somehow more awful, distorted by the metal walls of crushed cars and the swirling, moaning wind. Dean walked in long strides across the yard – came to a stop at the foot of a section of compressed trucks. The running boards had been layered into something resembling a staircase and Dean stood there, waiting while Sam caught up. Some kind of phosphorescent paint had been smeared along their edges and the makeshift ladder glowed eerily, wavering up into the snow-choked darkness.  
  
"Stay behind me and don't do _anything_ , you hear me? Nothing. They can't get through Bobby's walls, even if they _do_ notice us."  
  
"Dean, what is it?"  
  
Dean flashed that grin again, and swung up onto the first 'step'. "Don't wanna ruin the surprise, Sam." He climbed quickly but carefully, gloved hands finding each new hold before he lifted his foot free. Sam copied him, careful in his sneakers. They climbed a good twenty-five feet before Dean was suddenly gone, off the ladder of metal and on top of the wall. Sam poked his head carefully above the edge, squinting into the hammer-blow of wind and snow. Dean's hand coming under his arm startled him, but he pushed himself up the last few feet and staggered upright. The metal was scoured free of snow, pocked with rust. A tall piece of re-bar had been shoved down into the crumpled steel and a length of chain was looped around it. Dean had the chain wrapped around his fist and he yanked Sam closer, putting the other end of the chain in Sam's hand.  
  
"Hold on!" he yelled, his mouth close to Sam's ear, his arm around Sam's shoulders. Sam nodded and wrapped the chain once around his hand, leaning into the wind – into Dean. "Look – eleven o'clock!" Dean shouted, his fingers on Sam's jaw, pushing. The leather of his gloves was icy, slick with melted snow. Sam let his head be turned and he searched the darkness, unsure of what, exactly, he was looking for.  
  
And then he saw it, and his heart seemed to freeze in his chest. Far out – miles away, probably – was a flickering rope of...something. Not _fire_ , because no fire could burn that high in winds like that. Not light, because light didn't...move. It was – alive, but it wasn't _alive_ and Sam felt the panic he'd been holding back slam into him like a wave, suffocating.  
  
The thing – no, _things_ , God, there were more than one – moved like sentient liquid. Like contained flame, shimmer of heat trapped in a translucent casing. Casings that were somehow human-shaped without being even remotely human at all and Sam wanted to vomit. They were colored the sick, hectic red of an infected wound – the thick purple-black of viscera and the yellow of bile. They flickered – writhed – bent and swayed and flowed upright again, three twisting shapes that seemed to warp the night around them into a darker, somehow _blacker_ void.  
  
"Wh-what are – wh-what the fuck _are_ they, what – Jesus, Dean, I – I'm gonna –"  
  
"No you're not. You do not fucking _dare_ hurl up here in this wind." Dean's mouth touched Sam's ear as he spoke and Dean's scent was in his nose, leather and gun oil and salt and Sam turned his head for a moment, eyes closed – forehead pushed tight into Dean's temple. He was shaking – sweating – wheezing for air that just would not get down into his lungs, his knees ready to go out from under him and his heart trip-hammering in his chest, fit to break right through his bones. "Just breathe. Everybody feels like this when they see 'em."  
  
"God, oh, fucking...hell –" Sam gulped air and lifted his head – turned to look again. All three were closer now – moving in sinuous, hitching glide that made Sam's gorge rise – made him want to scream. What he presumed were heads – faces – seemed to be turned directly toward him. _Staring_ at him. Seeing him. They could...see him. And everything seemed to – stop. The wind died, cut off as suddenly as closing a door and the eerie, yipping howl of a dozen or more coyotes was suddenly audible, tearing across the darkness. They seemed to hear their own voices and went silent one by one, ragged chorus winding down. In the yard, the dogs abruptly went silent as well and Sam heard Dean inhale with a little click.  
  
"Oh, fuck me –"  
  
"We gotta get down, we gotta get down, Dean, we gotta – oh _fuck_ , they can see me, they can see me –" Sam had never felt quite that level of blind panic – of utter, gibbering terror and he was barely aware of the chain rattling through his hand as he dropped it – as he wrenched away from Dean's arm. "We gotta _go_ , they can see me, oh fuck –"  
  
Dean got a fistful of his coat and jerked him back, his eyes gleaming sickly, the forms reflected somehow in his eyes. "You'll break your fucking neck, you gotta calm down –"  
  
" _Dean_ –" Sam felt a shriek building somewhere behind his breastbone and God, he didn't want to let it out but he was pretty sure he didn't have any fucking say in the matter.  
  
"Sam, you can't –" Something streaked overhead – heatless light that threw no shadow and a sound – a noise that was too deep for his ears but instead thrummed through his body like a bell struck underwater, making his bones ache. The fourth thing arrowed to the earth somewhere in the midst of the other three and all of them seemed to turn. To shiver like blown candle-flames toward the newest one, the three ropes of hellish flame twining together and engulfing it.  
  
"Shit. Let's go – _now_." Dean dropped the chain and pushed Sam toward the ladder and Sam went to his knees – crawled over the edge and slithered down, hitting every third runner with feet or knees or finger-tips and falling the last ten feet, hitting the ground and rolling as the thumping rattle of Dean's descent told him Dean was right on top of him. Dean hit hard, cursing – grabbed Sam up and _ran_. A moment later a concussion of sound – a throbbing, booming roar – rattled the air around them. The wall of compacted metal groaned under the impact, everything popping and creaking as if it had been suddenly heated and then cooled too fast. As abruptly as it had stopped, the wind was back, howling down out of the sky, snow like flour, choking them. Sam staggered up the porch stairs beside Dean, missing the door and slamming into the jamb, stumbling over something as he was jerked through the doorway and into the relative warmth and silence of the house. Sam-dog scuttled past them, deeper into the house and Dean just leaned there against the door, his eyes wide and his face sheet-white.  
  
It took about ten seconds for Sam to get enough breath in him to laugh hysterically, and about sixty to bolt for the bathroom and puke so hard it felt like he'd broken a rib. When he made it back into the front room, Bobby had a shot waiting for him. He'd never needed a drink more.  
  
  
  
"What the hell are they," Sam asked, and Bobby leaned back in his chair, rubbing his hand over his face.  
  
"The Grigori, maybe. Or _Bene ha Elohim_ , the Watchers of God. Fallen angels. Demons, probably, but not ones we can exorcise."  
  
" _Demons_?" Sam paced between the door and the fireplace, hands on his hips, trying to think. Trying to get past the lingering feeling of _runhiderun_ that kept his heart pounding hard. Dean leaned one elbow on the mantel and watched him, seemingly recovered. But Sam could see the shot of whiskey shivering in his hand, minute tremors that caught the firelight and expanded in flickering ripples. "I – we exorcised demons. They're not – I mean, they're just smoke, not –"  
  
"The demons that possess people are...different. Lesser, maybe. Only partially manifested, I think. What's out there – that's the real deal. That's what fought with the angels and was cast down into the Pit." Bobby poured himself another shot and downed it and Sam put his arms on the mantel – leaned his forehead on his forearms and closed his eyes, the heat stinging against his shins.  
  
"Jesus...Christ. How do you fight things like that, how do you – do – anything?"  
  
"We don't. We don't fight them. We _can't_." Dean downed his own shot – put the glass on the worn wooden mantel with a little _crack_. "We've tried. Nothing touches them."  
  
Sam lifted his head, just catching the look of helpless fury on Dean's face before he shut it down. "Something does. What was – wasn't that something else, that came over – some other kind of – thing?"  
  
"No. Maybe." Dean shot Bobby a look of frustration and Bobby gestured with the bottle.  
  
"You boys sit down. Let me tell you what happened, Sam – where they came from. Maybe you'll understand." Sam hesitated for a moment and then settled into the rickety straight-backed chair that was near Bobby's table. Dean flung himself down into the recliner, making it creak in protest. He tilted it back savagely, putting one arm over his eyes.  
  
"I know this story, Bobby."  
  
"Won't kill you to hear it again," Bobby said. He looked at Sam, the bill of his hat casting his eyes in shadow. "There's always been monsters – always been demons. And there's always been hunters. Seems for a while, we were neck and neck. We couldn't kill them all, exorcise them all, but they couldn't take us over, either. Stalemate. Hunters traveled like they always do, and people knew the basics – kept salt and iron in their homes, didn't invite trouble in –"  
  
"Wait – you mean – everybody knows about hunters? You guys are – public?"  
  
"Of course we're public. How could anybody be safe if they don't know what's in the dark?" Dean looked at Sam from under his arm, an incredulous look on his face and Sam had to grin a little.  
  
"I dunno. We were totally off the grid. We didn't tell anybody we didn't have to. We did what we did and shut up about it."  
  
"That's crazy," Dean said, covering his face again, and Bobby chuckled softly.  
  
"People might be stupid, but they want to live. There's been times when they said hunters brought the monsters, instead of the other way around. But something always happens to show them they need us. When the President gets exorcised on national tv, you pretty much have to believe."  
  
"The _President_? Jesus – who? Who was it?"  
  
"Nixon," Bobby said, little snort of derision. "Like _that_ was any kind of surprise. Anyway, yeah – everybody knows about hunters. People welcomed you – treated you like a guest. It was –"  
  
"Yeah, yeah, it was like bein' a rock star or something, everybody loved the hunters and wanted to give them half their kingdom and their oldest daughter's hand in marriage. It was one big party." Dean's voice dripped with sarcasm and Bobby's mouth tightened in irritation.  
  
"It was a damn sight better'n what it could have been."  
  
"It's over, Bobby. We're not rock stars anymore, if we ever were."  
  
"Wait – I'm confused. Is – do people not believe anymore? What happened?"  
  
"They still believe." Bobby tipped himself back in his chair and Sam felt a weird sort of relief when the firelight shone across his face again, letting Sam see his eyes – see the crows feet and the dark smudges underneath. "There's just not a lot of 'em _left_ to believe. In 2002 there was a plague...it pretty much wiped us out. Went from six-something billion to about somewhere in the millions. Some kinda bird-thing, I dunno. They never really figured it out, but it was worse the more people were around each other. So people abandoned the big cities, trying to get away. Hell – half of 'em went up in flames, either trying to burn it out or burning the bodies..." Bobby stopped talking and poured himself another shot, his hand shaking, and Sam wordlessly held out his own glass.  
  
"It was on the 'net – live feed...should have seen it. Fuckin' Busch Stadium..." Dean spoke from under his arm, motionless in the recliner. "Dumping bodies in off ramps, filled the fucking thing up and set it on fire...kept it burning for a month."  
  
 _*You were twenty-three*_ Sam thought, watching him. _*You'd been an orphan for eight years. What were you doing when they were burning bodies in_ _St. Louis_ _? Who where you with? I should have been there...*_  
  
"People blamed demons – blamed hunters. Hell, people said it was the End Times, the seven seals broken and the anti-Christ walkin' among us." Sam twitched at that – looked down at the glass in his hand to hide it. The one secret he didn't want to ever have to tell. "Bunch'a bullshit, of course. For once, it was just Mother Nature instead of something supernatural. Just...too many of us, something had to give."  
  
"Is there – did they find a cure?"  
  
"Nah. It just kind of went away. Happened slow enough, we didn't lose everything. Still got the 'net – still got communication across the oceans – even got some satellites still up there, floatin' around. So long as people don't get too close – build up too many in one place, it seems to stay dormant."  
  
"So everybody just...hides from everybody else?"  
  
Bobby shrugged, and Dean made a little huff of sound from under his arm. "We don't hide – we just keep apart. Hunters travel – spread the news that people who aren't linked up can't get. There's still radio – people broadcast stuff, all you need's an antenna. Plenty of stuff left for everybody...we do all right."  
  
"It sounds...harsh," Sam said. But actually, it sounded _lonely_. It sounded like the end of everything...like the world – mankind – was winding down. Clockwork of ages dragging slower and slower, hitching and sticking and eventually...stopping.  
  
"It wasn't so bad, until those things came along." Bobby scratched at his jaw, sandpaper sound of his nails going through the salt-and-pepper of his beard. "Some fool decided they wanted to make a deal – make things better. Make everything like it was before. They called something that should have been left sleeping...opened something they never should have. And _those_ things got out. That was about...three years ago. Where they go...they change things. Make the veil thinner. More things get through, now, and it's easier for spirits to manifest – easier for people to do spells."  
  
"Jesus." Sam pushed his hand back through his hair – leaned back in the chair and then sat up again when the legs wobbled. "So – wait. Dean said...he exorcised the demon 'for what it was worth' – what's that mean?"  
  
"It doesn't really work anymore." Dean pushed the foot rest on the recliner down and sat up. "Those things have kind of made it Hell on Earth. Exorcising the little ones...they go out of the body but not _away_. They just go off and find somebody else. You have to trap them to keep them off of people."  
  
"Well, hell."  
  
"Yeah." Dean stood up and cracked his neck, rolling his shoulders and walking over to Sam and Bobby. He leaned against the edge of the table, his hands at his sides. But there was a tense wariness in his stance that made Sam feel a little like a mouse trapped under the shadow of a hawk. He tried not to flinch and ended up ducking his head, studying his worn-out sneakers. He needed new laces.  
  
"Hey, Bobby. I forgot to tell you," Dean said, in that soft, deadly voice that made every muscle in Sam's body go rigid. Fight or flight in the space of two heartbeats and his head jerked up, gaze meeting Dean's. "When we were out there, they _saw_ him."  
  
"They – what?" Bobby's voice cracked in surprise and this time Sam _did_ flinch.  
  
"Looked right at him, Bobby. If that other one hadn't come down...I think they'd have tried the wards."  
  
"Well, fuck." The look Bobby turned on Sam was cold – assessing. As frightening as the pure menace in Dean's voice and Sam wanted to get out of there, right now. "Guess I'd better get my ass in gear, then." Bobby pulled a piece of paper toward him and rooted a pen out of an old paint can full of random pens, pencils, screwdrivers and bits of wire. He turned around and pulled a ratty cloth-bound book out of a stack behind him and opened it to a marked page. He drew the lantern closer to his paper and started to carefully draw, starting in the center. Whatever he was putting down was dense and complicated and looked like it was going to take a while.  
  
Sam stood up – slowly, because Dean looked ready to tackle him, or maybe just deck him. Stood there feeling like an idiot, an ache somewhere in the pit of his belly because Dean... _*He's never going to trust me now. Never going to believe me. Got to figure this out, got to find a way to prove to him...*_  
  
"What are you gonna do, Bobby?"  
  
"I think I know what angel you made your deal with. I'm gonna get it here – see if it'll tell us anything useful."  
  
"You can – but..." Sam felt a sudden rush of anger flood through him, knocking back the fear – the despair. "If you can call angels, why don't you? Why are those _things_ still out there?"  
  
Dean laughed, and Bobby's mouth twisted in a grim little smile.  
  
"He _did_. He has. It was a human fucked everything up, Sam. A human did whatever it was that opened the gate – that let Hell come to Earth. Bobby called 'em the first time we saw those things, and they came. And they said..."  
  
"They said that their fight was in the celestial, not the mortal sphere. They said that humanity must rise above its own evil and have faith."  
  
"Basically, they said – 'not our problem.' " Dean stretched to pick up the bottle and took a hit straight from it, his throat working. A drop of whiskey clung to the corner of his mouth and he licked it off, smirking when Sam's eyes followed the motion. "We're in this alone, Sam Winchester. Like we've always been."

 

 

 

Sam couldn't sleep – no surprise – so he lay on his back and started at the yellowed plaster ceiling of the room Dean had shown him to. There were three beds crammed into it, and two battered dressers. A random assortment of weapons and books and wards drawn on the walls by some clumsy, childish hand. _'Jo and Lily were here'_ carved into one windowsill, with stars and a heart.  
  
 _*Hell on Earth. Most of the people dead and demons – God, like nothing I've ever seen – walking free. What am I supposed to do here? Why am I here? This is so fucked.*_ Sam finally got up, too wired to just lay there. He wore the sweatpants and thermal Dean had tossed to him – two pair of socks against the cold. He dragged the flannel on, too, and stepped out into the hall. Sometime after midnight the clouds had blown away and now moonlight shone in through the window at the end of the hall, the beam as white as salt.  
  
Sam walked silently to the stairs and hesitated at the top. He could see, down through the rails, the wavering light of Bobby's lantern. Still up – still working – and Sam didn't want to distract him. After a moment's more hesitation he turned and climbed up instead.  
  
The attic stairs were narrow – boxed in – and Sam tread carefully, hoping the wooden risers wouldn't give him away. As his head cleared the floor level he could see the attic room that was Dean's. Moonlight cut across the floor in three bands, sharp as knife blades. The space itself was small, the roof slanting steeply in from both sides, the center space wide enough for a bed and dresser and a set of bookshelves. A bar of moonlight fell across the bed, sparking white-blue lights off of Sam-dog's fur. Dean's face was in deep shadow.  
  
As Sam stepped onto the attic floor, Sam-dog lifted his head, watching with bright eyes from his position across Dean's legs. A moment later Dean's head came up, too, and Sam stopped.  
  
"What is it? Something wrong?"  
  
"No, nothing's wrong. I...I'm sorry, I just – I'll just –"  
  
"Jesus, Sam." Dean pushed himself up onto one elbow, rubbing at his eyes and Sam slunk a little closer, ducking his head and feeling ridiculously like he was a little kid again. Sam stopped at the foot of the bed, his hand reaching out to curl around the low curve of the old-fashioned bed frame. It was ice cold, the pale paint worn away and showing the dark, oxidized iron underneath in patches.  
  
"I'm sorry. I can't sleep, is all. Those...things..."  
  
"They fuck with you." Dean shifted under the layers of covers, pushing at Sam-dog, who squirmed unhappily, moving about an inch. "Stupid dog." Sam-dog yawned hugely and laid his head down, and Dean sighed. "Just – don't think about it. It only gets worse if you go over all the details. You'll feel better in the morning."  
  
"I'll feel better in the morning?" Sam couldn't stop the bark of incredulous laughter. "I didn't just – break up with my girlfriend or, or forget somebody's birthday!"  
  
" _No_ , you just saw your very first Hell's angels." Dean sounded irritated, snapping out the words. "Just – try to forget about it."  
  
"Jesus, I _can't_! What in hell are we supposed to do? They can't just – roam around. Do they kill people? What do they _want_? Fuck, there's so much –"  
  
"Oh, _God_ , please just shut up." Dean scrubbed wearily at his eyes again and Sam's mouth snapped shut on his next words.  
  
He felt a wave of irritation and then guilt wash over him. Dean looked exhausted, his voice rough and his eyes smudged with shadow, his skin nearly translucent in the bleached light. "Fuck. I'm _sorry_." Sam came around the foot of the bed, surprised that the air was warmer. There was a strip of brick wall that radiated a low heat and Sam realized it was the chimney of the fireplace down in Bobby's study. "A lot of information in my head today, you know? About...how things are here. It's a lot to take in." Sam crouched down, resting back against the warm brick, tucking his hands down between his thighs.  
  
Dean rubbed the back of his neck, his eyes going shut for a moment. "Yeah, sure. I get that. But you can't just...dwell on it. For all you know, you could be yanked outta here tomorrow, so..."  
  
"So you – believe me?"  
  
Dean just looked at him – shrugged a little, his fingers twisting in the yarn ties that decorated the quilt he was under. "Yeah. I still don't...know about the brother thing. I mean – Sam... My Sam's six years old, you know? Can't color in the lines and never fucking shuts up. You're just not...that."  
  
"I was, once." Sam shifted – slid down, sitting with his knees drawn up to his chest, right hand gripping his left wrist. "My Dean wouldn't let that car of his stay in that condition for five seconds."  
  
"Don't exactly have a lot of leisure time for primping," Dean said, but his voice held a note of longing.  
  
Sam had to grin – he knew Dean would slave over his 'baby' if he could. "Yeah, so you say. Admit it – you're in love with her."  
  
"She's never let me down," Dean muttered, and Sam sobered in an instant. He scooted forward, putting his hand on the edge of the mattress, eye to eye with Dean on the weirdly low bed.  
  
"I wouldn't, either."  
  
"So you say," Dean echoed. He yawned, glancing up and around. "The last time I had somebody up here in the middle of the night, I got laid."  
  
"In Bobby's house?" Sam sputtered, and Dean laughed softly.  
  
"Hell, yes. He's not a fuckin' Puritan. There's condoms down there, right next to the spare knives and extra tooth brushes."  
  
"Jesus. Did he – I mean, does he do some kind of 'birds and bees' speech?"  
  
"Oh, God, yeah. _'No means no, never without a rubber, don't for God's sake let me see you.'_ "  
  
"Oh, man." Sam snorted laughter and Dean grinned at him. "I can't believe it. So did you...always use a rubber?"  
  
Dean's eyes went wide and then narrowed a little. "Not every time. If you're asking if there's any Dean juniors running around, the answer's no."  
  
"Yeah. None in my world, either. But – some of the other Deans – they had family. Had a son or a daughter...one had five."  
  
" _Five_? Fuck's sake."  
  
"You were happy. I mean – he was."  
  
"Can't even imagine." Dean flopped back onto his pillow and Sam shifted again, leaning his elbow on the mattress. Resting his chin on his wrist, looking up at the whorled curve of a deserted hornet's nest that was hung up in the corner. Other trophies – rocks and weapons and what looked like a possum skull – were lined up on the bookshelf next to piles of spiral notebooks and a scattering of photographs. Everything was blurry and indistinct in the white-blue haze of the moonlight, the faces in the pictures nothing more than smudges of white and black, the skull chalk-white except for a crude pentagram painted on the forehead.  
  
"Was this always your room?"  
  
"Yeah." Dean shifted around on his back, looking at the bookshelves too, and his elbow bumped Sam's fingers. "Me and Sam stayed up here a couple of times. It was like being in the crow's nest of a ship. On a really windy day, you can feel the whole frame sway a little. After... It was quiet up here. Private. I needed that."  
  
"Yeah. Sam reached out, hesitant, and laid his fingertips against Dean's thermal-clad arm. Rubbing just a little, tiny circles on the waffle-weave cloth.  
  
Dean didn't move, and then he did, sitting back up and staring down at Sam. "What are you doing, Sam?"  
  
Sam snatched his hand away, curling his fingers into a fist – sitting up, pulling back. "I'm sorry. I just... I really miss...you. Him. God, it's been so long, I can't even... I don't know if you're exactly like him or totally...different, I can't _remember_ anymore. It's like – you _are_ him, until you say something that's just...wrong and..." Sam blinked hard – rubbed his nose with the back of his hand, willing himself to calm. Blinking back stupid, treacherous tears. "I just miss you, man. I miss you so fucking much..." His voice cracked and he leaned forward again, burying his face in the quilt – in the crook of his arm. Embarrassed and pissed at himself, throat aching with words he couldn't say – heart aching with longing and loneliness.  
  
After a long moment he felt a feather-touch to his hair. Tentative touch that grew bolder – that settled into a slow, careful stroking. Little rub behind his ears and a tug of the hair there and Sam smiled against the quilt. "I'm not your dog."  
  
"Act about as stupid," Dean said softly.  
  
"It's not stupid to miss somebody."  
  
"I'm right here, Sam."  
  
Sam lifted his head and studied Dean for a moment. Traced the familiar shape of jaw and cheekbones, the unfamiliar ridge of the scar across his lips – the too-prominent jut of his collarbone through the open neck of his thermal shirt. He _smelled_ right – like smoke and gun oil and leather. Like spice and musk, warm and familiar and so just...Dean. Dean stared back, the arm he was leaning on giving a faint tremor, angled wrong and stressed.  
  
"Dean?" Sam whispered, and Dean blinked, his gaze dipping down to Sam's hand, curled so close to his own.  
  
"What?"  
  
Sam took a breath and knotted his fist into the quilt – pulled himself up onto his knees and leaned in. Going slow because fast would be a challenge – an attack. Going slow so Dean could push him off – make him stop. Dean didn't, though. He watched Sam with half-lidded eyes – watched until Sam closed his own eyes, too close and just too _much_.  
  
Dean tasted like mint toothpaste and whiskey and the scar felt strange under Sam's tongue. The kiss seemed to go on forever and then Sam was leaning back. Trying to catch his breath and not really succeeding.  
  
"I thought you were my brother," Dean whispered, and Sam wanted to cry.  
  
"I am. I am, Dean, but –" Dean's hand snaked out and curled around the back of Sam's neck – tugged him close and then Sam was being kissed _back_ , heat and the wet slick of Dean's tongue – little click of teeth and the rasp of Dean's chin on Sam's – his fingers knotting in Sam's hair and his thumb pushing Sam's head over just a fraction.  
  
Sam didn't know what to do with his own hands – dug his fingers into the quilt and just hung on until Dean finally pulled away. Forehead to forehead and Dean's inhale was a little shaky, his voice a little rough.  
  
"Go to bed. Go back to bed, Sammy."  
  
"Okay," Sam breathed. He couldn't stop himself from a last, quick kiss – a brush of his thumb over the corner of Dean's mouth and then he pushed himself to his feet and went back to bed.  
  
  
In the morning, Bobby was blear-eyed and cranky, irritably making biscuits and gravy and whacking Dean's knuckles with a spoon when he reached for the bacon. "The animals aren't gonna feed themselves," he snarled, and Dean just laughed and managed to snag a piece anyway, ducking the spoon and heading toward the hallway and the coats.  
  
Sam's jeans had dried stiff but it felt good to be in clean clothes. Outside, the sky was champagne and saffron and soft plum and on impulse, Sam climbed up the ladder again, to where they'd stood the night before. The wind hit hard when he cleared the edge, pushing like a strong river current, cold as ice. Where the demons had been was nothing – an amber haze of fields and trees, covered in snow, the sun just over the horizon, fat and bright. The cars, though...  
  
Sam turned slowly, the rebar bumping his hip. Surveying the cars, which from his new vantage he could see had been laid out in a giant pentagram, with a further, huger circle enclosing it. Thousands of cars and trucks, crushed flat and linked by chain and sheet metal and rebar, I-beams and cable.  
  
"Holy fuck!" Sam yelled.  
  
"Pretty damn cool, huh?" Dean called. He was feeding the dog pack, fending off wet paws and wet noses, the scoop dribbling kibble all over the porch.  
  
"It's totally cool!" Sam took a last look – took in a deep, deep breath of air. It was so cold it hurt, crinkling the hairs in his nose and making his chest ache – burning in his throat. But it was clean, making his skin flush and his blood seem to fizz and he all but skipped down the ladder. He jogged across to Dean, who was slogging through the snow toward the barn. Aware that his mouth was stretched wide in a completely idiotic grin but he couldn't help it. He felt _good_. He felt...right. Like he was supposed to be here – like he'd finally _settled_ , and everything was gonna be okay.  
  
"Dude, you haven't even had any coffee yet. Don't tell me you're a morning person."  
  
"Would that be so bad?" Sam asked, scooping up snow and packing it.  
  
"Don't you fucking dare, man. I will bring you _down_." Dean's voice was menacing but a smile lurked in the corners of his mouth. Sam just laughed and let the snowball drop – helped Dean kick packed snow away from the barn doors and haul them wide. "Here – get eggs," Dean said, pushing an old, rusted lunch box into Sam's hands.  
  
"What? But..." Sam eyed the perched chickens with trepidation. Their beady little eyes glared back. "Man, I don't really like...chickens."  
  
"Don't be such a pussy," Dean said, taking down a lead rope and opening up one of the mule's stalls.  
  
"This sucks," Sam muttered, and stomped toward the chickens. He only got pecked six times.  
  
  
  
"At least you didn't break any eggs." Bobby snatched the lunchbox out of his hands and plucked one out –broke it over a panful of sizzling bacon grease. Sam rolled his eyes and went to wash chicken shit off his fingers, ignoring Dean's ' _brock brock_ ' noises.  
  
Breakfast was good and they ate in near silence, shoveling down eggs, biscuits and gravy, bacon and cornbread. Bobby had goats' milk – that Dean wouldn't touch – and Tang. Sam had loved Tang when he was little, picturing the astronauts drinking it, looking up at the sky and imagining himself up there, someday. Now, the metallic, artificial flavor was weird, but Sam drank some anyway, trying not to notice Dean watching him.  
  
When the food was gone and the dishes done – Bobby drinking coffee and directing Sam and Dean in the proper care of cast iron skillets – they all gathered in Bobby's study. He had the piece of paper from the night before on his table, only now it was covered with a dense scrawl of angelic letters and sigils, black ink spiraling out from the center of both sides, crowded up against the edges.  
  
Bobby had them cut a nick in their thumbs – and one in his – and they each carefully stamped a section of the paper. It reminded Sam of his original contract with the angel and the thought made him shudder a little.  
  
Bobby squinted sideways at him, sucking the blood off his thumb. "You know you need blood for things like this. The way it is."  
  
"I know. I just don't like it." Bobby shrugged and then took the paper – started folding it and Sam watched in astonishment as it was turned into a paper airplane.  
  
"Jesus. You're – kidding me, right? A paper airplane? That's how you summon _angels_?"  
  
"Watch and learn." Bobby handed the plane off to Dean and swung himself over to the front door and Sam and Dean followed. The wind was blowing steadily, crosswise over the porch and Bobby went to the far end and leaned out over the rail – held out his hand for the plane.  
  
"Works every time," Dean said, leaning against the house, arms folded. Grinning at Sam, who shook his head.  
  
"It's insane."  
  
"Shut up, the both of you." Bobby held the plane up to his lips, whispering something, then he tossed it lightly into the wind. It hovered for a second, looking as if it might simply crash to the snow but suddenly it swooped upward, spiraling higher and higher, moving fast. Snow spun up with it and Sam watched the little column of whirling white loft the plane above the roof – above the wall. Up and up until it disappeared altogether and he was left blinking at the high, blue curve of the sky.  
  
"Couple, three days and it'll be here," Bobby said. He looked cold in his flannel and down vest and stumped back inside.  
  
Dean pushed away from the wall and slung his arm around Sam's shoulder, pulling him toward the door. "C'mon, man. Don't tell me you don't trust _Bobby_."  
  
"I've never seen anything so freaking...bizarre." Sam stopped short of the door, turning under Dean's arm to face him. Wondering if he should just let it lie – if this was one of those times to _not_ talk. But he really just...couldn't. "Dean...last night –"  
  
"What about it?" Dean asked. His voice was soft but his eyes were half-lidded again, his gaze sweeping slowly over Sam's face. His hand on Sam's shoulder, heavy and warm through Sam's layers of shirts.  
  
"Is it...are you...c'mon, man. It's weird. You gotta think it's weird or...sick or...just – crazy."  
  
"Do I?" Dean looked at him for a long moment, little smile on his face. His thumb rubbing slowly over Sam's collarbone. Suddenly he leaned closer and kissed Sam, longish press of cold, chapped lips to Sam's mouth, tickling dart of his tongue. "You worry too much," he said. Turned and walked away into the house, and Sam just stood there, staring after him until the cold was too much and he had to go inside.

 

 

An hour later Dean was outside, digging through the trunk of the car for some weapon or other. There wasn't any false bottom, and the weapons were packed in carefully, separated by foam dividers. More organized than Sam was used to, and more varied. The dreamcatcher wasn't there, either. While Dean sorted knives and poked through boxes of ammo, Sam opened the back door and started folding blankets. There wasn't actually any trash, just a jumble of stuff that Dean probably used a lot, things he wouldn't want on top of his guns. Sam kicked clumps of mud off a couple of short-handled shovels, coiled rope and poured the contents of three half-empty cans of kerosene into one. By the time he was finished, Dean was leaning against the side of the car, watching him with a little smirk on his face.  
  
"Having fun, June?"  
  
"It's fucking habit," Sam muttered, smoothing the stack of blankets and straightening up – shutting the door. He rubbed his gloved hand over the deep score marks that ran down the car's side. "What happened?"  
  
"Stick Indian," Dean said, and Sam made an inquiring face. " _Skanicum_. It's a kind of Bigfoot, they steal women sometimes. Had to hunt it down up around Puget Sound." Dean leaned down and rubbed over the marks himself, little frown on his face. "I know a gypsy tinker over in Kansas, guess I should get him to tap that dent out...sand those scratches down and put some primer on there 'til I can repaint in the spring. Wouldn't want her to start rusting." His exploring touch turned to a caress and he had a little smile on his face that made Sam want to laugh.  
  
"Guess I'll just...give you two a moment alone, then?"  
  
"Shut up," Dean muttered, but he was grinning. He straightened up and rubbed his hands together. "Fuckin' cold. Time for some of Bobby's famous Recipe."  
  
"What's that?" Sam turned with Dean, trudging back toward the house, squinting a little from the glare of sunlight on the packed snow crystals.  
  
"This crazy stuff he makes called Scrumpy. Made from apples."  
  
"Huh." Sam contemplated Bobby making alcoholic apple cider. It was oddly fitting. "Where's he get –" Sam was interrupted by a sudden chorus of barks from the dog pack. They came running around the corner of the house, full-throat, but their tails were wagging and Dean was squinting toward the gate, nothing in his posture saying 'danger'.  
  
"Looks like Lisa's back."  
  
"Who's Lisa?"  
  
"Her and her kids live here with Bobby. Help him out. They did a run up to Rapid City for some supplies." They turned away from the house and walked toward the gate instead, watching the dogs mill and jump and bark. A silver truck – battered off-road Ranger – was pulling up to the gate. The headlights flashed – once, twice, three times, and Dean spun the combination lock on the chain and undid it, swinging the gate open, cursing good-naturedly at the dogs skittering around his feet. The truck bumped over the mostly-buried I-beams that kept the trap of iron complete, growling in low gear through the patches of drifted snow.  
  
Sam saw three faces watching him through the glare of sun on glass and then the truck was rumbling past, the bed covered with a camper shell, boxes and oddments pressed up against the windows. Dean locked the gate up again and they followed the truck's tracks back to the house. Bobby had come out onto the porch, smiling through his beard, and a moment later the passenger door opened and two kids spilled out into the snow.  
  
Well, not _kids_ , exactly, Sam thought, watching them run up onto the porch and hug Bobby – stoop to pet the dogs, chattering excitedly. The boy was probably about twelve, the girl maybe fourteen, both dressed in jeans and Gore-Tex coats – scarves trailing and gloves poking out of their pockets, expensive hiking boots on their feet. _*Rotting on the shelves,*_ Sam thought. Everyone left could dress in the most expensive gear out there, if they wanted. It seemed these kids wanted.  
  
The driver's door opened a moment later and a woman stepped down out of the cab, dressed about the same. The only difference was the worn-looking sheep skin lined coat, and her age.  
  
"Hey, Bobby!"  
  
"How was it?" Bobby asked, tipping his head to look down at something the boy was showing him.  
  
"Not bad. Rapid City's about done. We ended up going down to Hot Springs, found some high-end stuff in this little 'boutique'." Lisa said the word with a laugh in her voice, and Bobby grinned at her. "Hey, Dean."  
  
"Lisa – good to see you." Dean had his hands shoved in his pockets and he nodded at the woman, body a little stiff. She gave him the same back, friendliness dialed down about five notches. Sam wondered what was between them, to make them so uneasy with each other.  
  
"Who's this?" Lisa slammed the truck door closed and took a couple steps toward Sam, her dark gaze sweeping over him. She was probably in her mid-forties, little lines at the corners of her eyes – around her mouth. Bulky in the big coat, surprisingly tall.  
  
"I'm Sam –"  
  
"He's my brother," Dean said abruptly, and Sam felt a bubble of delight bloom in his belly, warm and curling. Dean bumped him with his shoulder and Sam pushed back, ducking his head to hide his grin.  
  
Lisa raised an eyebrow, clearly surprised. "He is?"  
  
"Yup."  
  
"Huh." Lisa stared at Sam for long moment and then she shrugged, dismissing him. "Good thing you're here, Dean. We found a demon in Hot Springs. Got it in the back. It's still in possession."  
  
"Shit." Dean's face shut down, all emotion gone, and he walked to the back of the truck, opening up the shell and letting the tail-gate down. An olive drab Army duffel rolled forward onto the gate, squirming.  
  
"Dean, what the fuck –?"  
  
"It's still in somebody," Dean said. He looked down at the duffel, loathing on his face. It was grimy with dirt, and when he manhandled it off the tail-gate and to the ground, Sam could see a stiff, black stain along the bottom. Blood.  
  
"Christ, Lisa."  
  
Lisa walked to the back of the truck, pulling her gloves off and stuffing them into her pocket. Her hands were scuffed across the knuckles, red and sore-looking. "Had to shoot the knees out – damn thing wouldn't quit kicking."  
  
"But – it's inside a _person_..." Sam felt sick, thinking about it.  
  
"Yeah. But the body's dead. Neck's broke, looks like it took a good fall. Once we get that demon outta there, that body's so much cooling meat." She pushed once with her toe, expressionless, and Sam turned away. Walked away fast, heading for the barn – the wall – somewhere. Anywhere but near that squirming, silent, blood-stained bundle.  
  
  
  
Dean found him in the barn a couple of hours later. He was polishing harness, fingers sticky with saddle-soap, his head empty of everything but the circular rub of the rag – the good smell of clean leather and hay. One of the barn cats was curled up on the hay bale with him, a warm, black and white puddle against his thigh.  
  
"Hey," Dean said, leaning his shoulder up against the stall door opposite. The mule inside canted an ear toward him and then away, disinterested.  
  
"Hey. Sorry about... I should have stayed, helped you guys unload everything."  
  
"Nah. Those kids needed to work some energy off after sittin' in the truck for so long. So...you okay?"  
  
Sam wiped soap off a cheek-strap, slowly. "Not... There _is_ a person in there, Dean." _*I know, God, I know...what if they're still in there? What if they're screaming right now but you can't hear them, what if, what if, I -*_  
  
"I know. But Lisa said they're dead."  
  
"What if she's _wrong_? They're in that...fucking bag –" Sam twisted the leather in his hands, hearing it creak. Wishing he could shred it. "I mean, she _shot_ them, what if –"  
  
"If Lisa said they're dead, Sam, they're dead." Sam twisted the harness harder, the buckle digging into the heel of his hand. Silver twisting into flesh, like the knife at Jo's face, like the one that had flashed dull silver in the grainy feed of a security camera. It didn't hurt. "Sam. Sam? What the fuck –?" Dean crouched down, his hands on Sam's – prying at his fingers and jerking the harness away. Turning Sam's palms up, hissing softly at the red lines – the triangular gouge from the buckle's corner. The flesh around it was already darkening to a bruise, the wound itself welling slow carmine.  
  
Sam looked up at Dean, guilty – sickness in the pit of his belly. "I was...there was this demon. She – it... It was in this girl. Meg. And we – exorcised it and Meg...died. And then the demon came back later. For revenge, you know..." Sam tried to rub the blood off his palm but Dean's fingers clamped down around his, stilling him.  
  
"Sam –"  
  
"It got in _me_. It was in me and I did...things..." Sam looked up and away, not meeting Dean's eyes – feeling his gaze nonetheless. Feeling the warmth from where Dean's knees were pushing into his shins. "I never told...Dean how much I remembered. It let me see stuff. It...talked to me, sometimes." He looked down, finally – met Dean's gaze. "What if the person is really still...in there? How do you know they're gone?"  
  
"I – have to trust they are." Dean looked worried – a little pissed. His hands were still locked around Sam's, grinding his knuckles together. Sam didn't mind. "I've exorcised a lot of demons. The person's pretty much always gone when it's over. A couple times they were still there, but..." Dean sighed and looked down – eased his grip up a little, rubbing his thumbs over the calluses Sam had across the top of his palms, just under the bend of his fingers.  
  
"They died pretty much right away. This one guy was...he'd gone insane. He killed himself a couple days later."  
  
"Fuck."  
  
"Yeah." Abruptly Dean let go – stood up. Took the two steps necessary so that he could examine the bundle of newly-cleaned harness hanging up on a harness hook. "Listen. The demon's in the still house. If you wanna see for yourself, you can. Make sure the person's gone."  
  
Sam closed his eyes for a long moment. Remembered the thick, hot wash of blood on his belly – the sharp _crack_ of his fist hitting Dean's jaw. "Yeah. Yeah, okay. I just...can't..."  
  
"I know, Sam," Dean said softly, chiming the buckles of the harness together. "It's okay."  
  
  
The still house held Bobby's still and bushels of newspaper wrapped apples and crates of earthenware crocks with cork stoppers. They looked like the jugs in an old Li'l Abner cartoon, the kind with X's across them. These were a blank, greeny-brown and the whole rough-boarded building smelled so strongly of fermented apple it made Sam's nose sting. The duffel was lying on a stack of warped palettes, motionless now.  
  
"It can't cross any of the wards Bobby has on the house," Dean said. The duffel twitched at his voice. "And it can't get out of the junk car trap he made, so...safe enough out here." It was warm in the still house, fermentation and a small, perpetual fire under the huge copper still. The lantern Sam held made the shadows twist up the walls; tide of darkness that ebbed and flowed with the pound of his heart.  
  
"So are you...do you exorcise it here? What do you do with it?" The duffel twitched more violently, and Sam took a step back.  
  
"Nah. We take it over to Sioux Falls. Got a place there...you'll see. Kind of a giant...roach motel for demons, since we can't send the bastards back to Hell anymore."  
  
"Huh." Sam stared at the duffel until Dean moved past him, taking a key out of his pocket. Like all Army duffels, it had a ring of steel eyelets around the top. The sides were folded in, and the eyelets were slid, one after the other, down onto a long, thin U of metal. Then a padlock was fed through the U. Dean unlocked the padlock and folded the duffel down so the body inside was revealed to about mid-chest. It was a man, mid-thirties or so, thinning blond hair and weather-rough skin. There was a thick twist of cloth jammed between cracked and bloody lips and the moment the demon's gaze fell on Dean, it started making noise. Guttural, choked sounds that made Sam cringe a little. He could see chains – worn dull and rusted in spots – wound around the chest and upper arms. And, through a rent in the shoulder of the shirt, a binding lock, red and seeping.  
  
"Here – look." Dean hauled the body upright a few inches and pushed the head over – and over. Far too far for any normal human. The splintered remains of smashed vertebra pressed lumpy and horrible against the bruised skin of the body's neck and Sam felt his gorge rising.  
  
"Jesus – fuck."  
  
"They're dead, Sam."  
  
The bloodshot blue eyes went wide – went black, and Sam just wanted to get the fuck out of there. "Yeah. Yeah, okay. Let's –"  
  
"Get the fuck out of here. Right there with ya." The demon thrashed, screaming behind the gag and Dean yanked the stained canvas back up over its head – struggled to get the eyelets threaded and the padlock in. He finally managed it, cursing softly and they left the still house in silence, lantern swinging in Sam's hand. The sun was sliding down into the west, long mare's tails glimmering high in the sky. "Probably have snow again by tomorrow," Dean said, face tilted up toward the pale blue. "At least we'll be driving ahead of it."  
  
"When are we gonna leave?"  
  
"In the morning." Dean sighed, kicking snow off his feet before climbing the porch stairs. "You need to get some more clothes out of storage – find something to pack it in. Can't keep running all over Hell's half acre without a spare pair'a socks."  
  
"Sir, yes sir," Sam murmured, and Dean only grinned.

 

 

They filled the car up in the morning. Bobby had an underground tank in his machine shop, and three empty tankers that Lisa had found, at one time or another, sitting rusting in the weeds out back. Dean said Ash was trying to figure out how to get the Chevy to run on some kind of biofuel, like vegetable oil. But that kind of stuff didn't hold up well in cold weather, and he'd have to swap out the car's engine for a diesel one.  
  
"And there just isn't that much power in those bioengines," Dean said, patting the car's trunk. "My baby can outrun just about anything."  
  
"So – is gas running out?"  
  
"Not...exactly." Dean finished filling the tank and shut the pump off. "There's a lot of gas just _out_ there, but it's not always easy to get to. And some places, especially out west, the tanks were maybe half full or less when it all went down, so you can get stuck in the wrong place if you're not careful." Dean wiped the well of the gas tank's opening off with a rag and screwed the cap on. "I've been filling up cans – leaving caches around when I can. Marking the places on the map where there's no gas at all. It works."  
  
"Anybody still making gas?"  
  
"There's a refinery down in Texas somewhere. They've got a couple working wells, but it's on the gulf, and the weather's chancy. They can only run at capacity for a few months out of the year. Weather's got kinda – weird since –"  
  
"Since those things came?"  
  
"Yeah." Dean took a deep breath – looked around the shop, at the tanks of acetylene gas Bobby used for welding – the racks of tools and cutters and the big drill press standing in one corner. "Yeah, since it all changed..." He seemed to be focusing on something else for a moment – some other time or place and Sam just watched him. Watched him reach up and rub his thumb across his lip for a moment, touching the scar. Then he looked up at Sam, giving him a faint smile. "Burning daylight, Sam. Let's go."  
  
"Ready when you are, Dean." Sam had a bag of extra clothes – a toothbrush and comb – in the foot well behind the front seat, courtesy of Bobby's stores. Lisa had handed over a pair of Gore-Tex gloves but none of the boots she'd brought back had been big enough. Story of Sam's life, really. Bobby had unearthed a big, canvas barn coat from somewhere, quilted flannel lining and deep pockets and Sam hunched gratefully into its warmth as he pushed open the shop door and waited while Dean drove through.  
  
Up at the house, Bobby was standing on the porch, his dog pack milling around his crutches, the kids fussing over the dogs. Lisa was hauling the duffel across the snow by the strap, her face set. Dean opened the car's back door and took over when she got close, hauling it up and round and shoving it inside, halfway in the foot well, sort of slumped over onto the stack of blankets. It didn't seem to be moving.  
  
"Sammy – guard," Dean said, and Sam-dog trotted across the snow and climbed up over the imprisoned demon – settled himself in the empty seat, black eyes fixed squarely on the stained canvas. "Guess you'll have to ride shotgun this time, Sam."  
  
"You sure?"  
  
"Wouldn't make you ride next to that thing for four hours."  
  
"It's over five to Sioux Falls," Lisa objected, rubbing her hands together. She was hatless this morning, her shoulder-length hair confined in a sloppy braid. Silver-grey hairs glinted like tinsel in the dark brown strands. She had chapped lips and a crooked nose – hazel eyes deep-set under flat brows.  
  
"Not for my baby. We'll be back tomorrow, Bobby."  
  
"Be sure you do. Angel's don't like bein' stood up."  
  
"Wouldn't think of it." Dean gave Bobby a sort of half-assed salute and Bobby jerked his chin, looking grim. Sam lifted his hand and waved and after a moment Daniel waved back. Laura just watched him, fending off a sloppy doggy mouth.  
  
"Be careful. It's almost Solstice," Lisa said, and Dean nodded.  
  
"No problem." He slid into his car and Sam pulled his own door open and folded himself down into the seat. It felt...different. Sam-dog hadn't worn a place into the cushion – the back wasn't quite as soft and Sam hadn't ever been happier. He grinned down at his hands in the new gloves as Dean backed the car and turned it – drove off toward the gates. Lisa followed in her truck and Dean stopped, waiting. Lisa walked around them – opened the lock and the gate, and then went to the hinge-side and kicked the snow away from a small box. It, too, was locked and once she opened it, she pressed something inside. There was the sharp whine of a motor and then the I-beams that completed the ward began to be winched slowly up off the ground, shedding snow and ice in clumps.  
  
"Huh. Guess that answers my question about how do we get the demon _out_ of Bobby's trap."  
  
"The man thinks of everything," Dean said, driving forward slowly, bumping over ridges of snow and dirt until they were clear of the gate. Sam turned in his seat, watching as Lisa put the winch into reverse and lowered the beams again. Three miles of rutted dirt road led them to a state highway that joined I-90 at Sturgis. The road was mostly blown clear of snow and Dean drove fast, both hands on the wheel and his gazed fixed forward.  
  
"What'd she mean about Solstice?"  
  
Dean shrugged a little. "The whole deal with the sun and stuff – it affects things more than it did before. Things come creeping out of the woodwork and those – demons, they're more active then. Winter solstice is the worst, longest night of the year. Everybody just goes to ground – tries to get through it."  
  
"So, it's almost December twenty-first?"  
  
Dean looked at him out of the corner of his eye. "Yeah. It's the nineteenth."  
  
"Almost Christmas," Sam murmured, and Dean grinned.  
  
"Hoping for a little visit from Saint Nick?"  
  
"Only if he brings me a new laptop." Sam felt almost naked without it – itched to see what this world's 'net looked like.  
  
"Good luck with that." The wind was blowing, strong gusts that pushed at the car and Dean fell silent, concentrating on the road. Content, it seemed, to simply drive.  
  
After an hour, though, Sam was starting to twitch.  
  
"Dude, what the fuck is up with you? You were supposed to hit the head before we left Bobby's."  
  
"Jesus, shut up. I'm just...not... You – I mean, Dean usually has music playing, you know? Or...we talked about stuff." Sam felt like an idiot – like a little kid, complaining, but Dean's eyebrows drew down in a frown, contemplating.  
  
"I'm just...used to the quiet, I guess. Sammy doesn't say much." Dean glanced over at Sam and away, lower lip pulled between his teeth for a moment. "I threw all my tapes away when Dad... Most of it was his stuff, you know? It just...reminded me of him too much."  
  
"Yeah..." Sam sighed – pushed his feet flat to the floor, stretching as best he could. "Sorry, I didn't mean to – stir up –"  
  
"It's cool." Dean's remark was off-hand but his voice was tight with tension and Sam shut his mouth. Dean drove another five miles or so, avoiding the remains of an overturned semi and what looked like a piece of roofing. Far to the south, Sam could see smoke, like a faint scour of dark chalk dust against the goose-grey of the clouds.  
  
"No, really – it's cool, Sam. If you wanna talk just, you know...talk."  
  
"Uh..." Sam thought of the half a hundred questions he had about Dean – about Dad – about...everything. Sorted and discarded and settled on what felt like a fairly neutral topic. "That Lisa chick – she doesn't seem to like you."  
  
"It's mutual, believe me."  
  
Sam waited a minute and then sighed, fighting the urge to roll his eyes. "Yeah, so? Did you hit on her? Did you steal her favorite gun? What?"  
  
"She used to be married," Dean said, staring at the road. "Her husband was a hunter. He got possessed, went on a rampage... He got shot up, finally got caught and we exorcised it out of him but it was too late, he was dead, and... She tried some half-assed ritual to bring him back. Brought back something else."  
  
"So why's she pissed at you?"  
  
"I re-killed the bastard and then I broke her nose. Took all her books away and hid 'em for about a year. She thought she could just – chant a little spell, burn some stinky herbs and everything'd be cool. Stupid."  
  
Sam shifted uncomfortably, looking out the window. Looking at the scuffs from Sam-dog's claws on the dash. Not saying anything but of course, Dean noticed.  
  
"I guess your Dean had better luck, huh? Brought you back right."  
  
"Yeah, I guess ." _*Not quite. Not...totally. Brought back something that Pride called the Boy King. Brought back something that could kill Gordon bare-handed...*_ Sam concentrated on looking out the window and Dean made a little 'huh' sound.  
  
"So that whole deal with those demons noticing you at Bobby's....that doesn't have anything to do with you being brought back from the dead?"  
  
"What? No! Of course it doesn't." Sam tried his best to look wide-eyed. Shocked and pissed off but Dean just shot him a narrow-eyed look. "I drank the holy water, Dean. And I could go in and out of Bobby's house and...handle crosses – everything. I'm not – different."  
  
"You sure about that?" There was tension in Dean's shoulders – a deceptive mildness in his voice and it made the skin on the back of Sam's neck prickle. Dean in hunt-mode, digging for information. Weighing up, picking apart – exactly what Sam didn't want him to do.  
  
"Of course I'm sure! I think... I think it's because I'm not actually from _here_ , you know? I'm from some other...reality and I think...maybe that's why they noticed." Sam put everything into his voice – into his gaze – to convince Dean. Every ounce of sincerity he could muster. _*I'm not a demon, Dean. I'm not. I'm just your brother...please...*_  
  
"Sure, okay. Maybe you're right." Dean opened his hands on the wheel, flexing his fingers a little. Closed them again, taking a slow curve in the road. "Guess we'll know for sure once we get to Sioux Falls."  
  
"We will? What do you mean?"  
  
Dean sent a tight little smile Sam's way. "Got somebody there who'll know for sure, that's all."  
  
"Dean...." Sam wanted to scream – wanted to get right up in Dean's face and force the information out of him – beat some fucking trust into him. "You told Lisa that I'm your brother. I thought... Don't you trust me?"  
  
Dean's smile flattened out, until he had no expression at all. Sam-dog made a small little growling whuf of a sound, obviously not happy with the tension in the car. "I haven't had a brother for almost twenty years, Sam. I'm just...makin' sure I've got all my bases covered."  
  
"I'm not a demon, Dean. I'm not." Dean didn't answer, just pushed down a little harder on the gas, sending the car forward with a surge, low rumble of the engine revving to a full-throated roar. Sam hunched down in his seat and didn't say another word.  
  
  
  
Sioux Falls was south of the highway, and for a long time Sam wasn't really sure what he was seeing as they drove closer. The sky was skeined with clouds, hazed a pearly grey on the horizon and a darker slate blue to the west. Squall line of snow they would drive straight into going back, Sam was sure.  
  
The city itself was a smear of darkness to the right and as they got closer Sam could see that something big – something _bad_ – had happened there. The ground was rumpled as if someone had tossed down a cloth, and as they drove closer, Sam could see that the city was nothing but rubble – blackened stumps of buildings that ringed a crater of enormous proportions. The snow melted away about a quarter of a mile from the crater, leaving nothing but mud at the ragged edge.  
  
"God, what – happened?"  
  
"Not really sure. It happened when those demons showed up. Something...fell."  
  
"Were there any people?"  
  
"Yeah." Dean steered the car carefully down a warped off-ramp, heading toward what looked like the entrance to an underground bunker. Windmills stood like sentinels all around, spinning lazily. Some had been painted and they made blurs of blue and green, red and yellow and purple. "There were a couple thousand. I think about...twenty got out." The car bumped over snow that had melted and re-frozen into ruts, and Dean guided it to a stop at the base of a particularly colorful windmill. Its tall stalk was painted like a barber pole, winding up and around to the sunburst blades. Dean squinted up at it through the windshield.  
  
"I guess Andy's been gettin' the good 'shrooms." He grinned at Sam and then pushed his door open, standing up and out.  
  
 _*Andy? Oh...wow. Is this Andy with powers or just...Andy?*_ Sam felt a little surge of excitement. _Andy_. Alive. It felt good.  
  
"C'mon Sammy," Dean said, and Sam-dog scrambled over the seat and out the door, dancing on his hind legs for a moment so Dean could scrub both hands through his ruff. Then he dropped down and started sniffing, crazy zigzags all over the place. Dean leaned back into the car and honked the horn twice and Sam pushed his own door open – stepped out and stretched hard. The wind didn't reach here, it seemed – the snow that hadn't melted was at least ten inches deep, lying like the puffiest of down comforters over the gentle slope of the bunker's roof.  
  
Toward the remains of the city everything was charcoal and soot, bleached umber and the pale bronze of winter-killed grass. Sam stood staring at it, trying to make out details but the air was thick with moisture, a drizzle so fine it was more of a mist and he finally shrugged and turned away. The bunker's door – wide, dark, made of some reinforced metal – was swinging slowly open and Sam walked around the hood of the car, stopping next to Dean. Something – someone – moved in the shadows and then a dog shot out of the murk, barking. Sam braced himself for a possible attack but the dog only ran in circles, yipping hysterically.  
  
"Jesus – _fuck_ –"  
  
"She gets a little excited. Janis! C'mon, girl, c'mon –" Dean held his hand out and the dog danced closer, long muzzle sniffing, tongue lolling. She was a pale grey, her curly coat shorn close to her body. She bowed down, hindquarters waggling, and then leaped away, snapping playfully at Sam-dog, who rolled her over in the snow.  
  
"Hey, tell your dog to stop molesting my girl!" someone called and it was _Andy_ , walking out into the snow, squinting a little. Wearing a long black coat and a scarf that would make Dr. Who green with envy.  
  
"Tell that hussy of yours to stop throwing herself at my boy!"  
  
"Fucker." Andy stood there, grinning all over his face. Same mess of tangled brown hair, same silver ear cuffs, same air of Oliver Twist and the Artful Dodger all rolled into one. "You know she's too good for your mutt." Andy flicked a glance at Sam and Dean nudged Sam with his elbow.  
  
"C'mon." He walked forward and Sam followed – almost tripped over something buried in the snow. He stumbled over it and looked back, seeing a dark length of iron, rimed with ice. "Andy, this is Sam. My brother."  
  
"Hey, Ss...but – your _brother_? But I thought you said...?" Andy put both hands into his hair, rubbing at his scalp with his fingertips. He had rings on half his fingers, skulls and bats and something that looked like a dragon or a snake. "Whoa, okay, I've been laboring under this delusion for _years_ that your brother –"  
  
"My brother died when he was six. This is my...uh... Hell, it's a long story. We're inside the wards, he's my brother. We cool?"  
  
Andy stared for a moment at Sam and then at Dean, and then he grinned, sticking his hand out to Sam. "Hi, I'm Andy and yeah, Dean, yeah, we're cool, we're just – Janis! Stop that, you hussy!" Sam looked over his shoulder at the two dogs who were...copulating. Enthusiastically. Dean looked, too, and threw his head back, laughing. First real laugh Sam had heard from him and it was... God, it was...  
  
 _*The same, just the same, hey, Dean...*_ It made Sam feel warm and lightheaded and happy, just like it always had.  
  
"We don't do child support," Dean said, and Andy threw him a look of scorn.  
  
"So not surprised. So – uh...you here on business, or...?"  
  
"Business, mostly. Sorry, man. Got one in the back and it's still in possession." Dean lifted his chin toward the car and the animation drained out of Andy's face.  
  
"Fuck. Yeah, okay. Lemme...lemme get Ava and Jake, let's just – get it over with."  
  
"Yeah." Andy retreated inside and Dean walked back to the car – opened the door and dragged the duffel out. Fresh blood gleamed wetly along the bottom of the canvas and Dean cursed, looking into his car with a frown. "Fucking blood in my floorboards..."  
  
"So where are we taking it?" Sam asked, as Dean dropped the duffel just outside of the snow-buried wards. There was a smear of blood in the snow behind him, drag-mark from the car.  
  
"Down there," Dean said, pointing toward the crater. "Demon roach motel, Sam. You'll see." They waited in silence, watching the dogs – the windmills. Looking anywhere but the lump of sodden canvas at their feet. It stirred feebly, once, and then was motionless again.  
  
There was a clattering from inside the bunker and then Andy emerged again, gloves on his hands and a knit cap pulled down over his ears. His coat was buttoned up now, and he had a bag slung over his shoulder. Behind him came Jake, and Sam felt himself flinch. Felt that moment, all over again – that white-hot jolt that had become a burning tide that had swamped him – pulled him down. Jake had a wheelbarrow in his hands and he headed toward them – toward the duffel – with grim determination. After Jake came...  
  
"Ava – god –" Sam snapped his mouth shut and Dean looked sharply over at him, understanding on his face.  
  
"That's right, you....know them, don't you?"  
  
"I...did. Others just like them. But Ava –" This Ava was _pregnant_ , looking near her due date, bundled up in a coat that was going to be too small very soon. She was picking her way across the snow in big, puffy boots with fake blue fur sticking out of the tops.  
  
"Dean! Hi, Dean!" The same smile – the same brown hair, wisping around her little-girl face and Sam wanted to hug her. Wanted to punch her right on her pointed chin.  
  
 _*Jesus Christ, get a grip. This is not the same girl. Not the same Jake, none of them...none of them the same...*_  
  
"Hey, Ava. Jake."  
  
"Dean. How's it hangin'?" Jake grinned, hoisting the duffel with no effort at all and Dean grinned back.  
  
"Long and proud, my man, long and proud. Guess you'll be chasin' another rug-rat around the place in a couple months?"  
  
Jake shot a proud, fond smile at Ava, who was cooing at Sam-dog, bending awkwardly to pet him. "Six weeks, give or take. Man, I'm hopin' for a girl this time. Boys are a pain."  
  
"Don't I know it." Dean whistled shrilly and Sam-dog leaped away from Ava and trotted over. Janis-the-dog was already gone, dashing ahead with Andy toward the crater. "Jake, this is my brother, Sam."  
  
"Hey, Jake," Sam said, holding out his hand, and Jake shook it, gripping carefully.  
  
"Sam. Huh. Another Winchester. I'll be damned." He shot a puzzled look at Dean. "Thought you were the last of the line?"  
  
"It's a long story. Let's just – do this first."  
  
"Yeah, sure." Jake picked up the wheelbarrow's handles and started pushing it through the snow, following Andy.  
  
Ava clomped up to Dean and gave him a one-armed hug. Her nose was pink at the tip, her eyes bright. "You staying overnight? Scott made lasagna."  
  
"I'd crawl ten miles through the snow for Scott's lasagna," Dean laughed, hugging her carefully back. He seemed a little nervous. But then, Sam thought – his own Dean had never been particularly comfortable around pregnant women. "This is Sam. My brother."  
  
"So I heard. Wow. Well – welcome to the Roach Motel, Sam." She held out her un-gloved hand and Sam stripped his own glove off and shook. Her fingers were dry and cold, and Sam felt the slightest... _something_...at her touch. "Let's march, boys. We're getting cold."  
  
"Yes m'am." Dean let her take his arm, guiding her down-slope and Sam – with Sam-dog – followed.

 

 

The crater's edge was a little over a quarter of a mile away. The snow petered out before they were halfway there, and the air took on a slightly balmy feel. The rubble was smaller the closer they got – more pulverized – and the ground sticky-slick with mud. Sam slithered along in his sneakers, taking quick glances up and around. A jumbled hedge of what looked like sticks became, as they got closer...crosses.  
  
Dozens and dozens – probably hundreds – of crosses made from rebar or wood or, here and there, stone. Andy stopped at one in particular that looked as if it had been salvaged from a monument makers. It was pinkish granite, unpolished, the edges ragged. He rested his hand on the top of it for a moment, looking down, and then with a little hitch of his shoulders was moving on. There was a path, now – broken bits of stone and sidewalk and Sam stepped gratefully onto it, catching up to Dean and Ava. Ava touched the cross, too, looking after Andy.  
  
Dean caught Sam's questioning look and let Ava go ahead of him. "Andy's twin brother," he said, and Sam stopped and stared down at the rough-cut marker.  
  
"Oh. He didn't – was he –?"  
  
"He fell. Hit his head – took him a few days, but..." Dean sighed and looked up and around at the forest of crosses. "It was a couple years ago."  
  
"That sucks." Sam followed Dean's gaze, shivering a little. It wasn't as cold down here as it had been by the bunker but the air was leaden. Dead in his lungs, scentless and colorless and just...wrong. It made Sam feel slightly sick. "Who are – all the rest?"  
  
"The poor bastards that got possessed." Dean started walking again, following a bend in the path. They skirted a tumble of shattered boulders and cement, the dogs barking somewhere up ahead. "We burn 'em but...Ava wanted to do something to remember them."  
  
"It's kind of creepy," Sam said, low, and Dean laughed a little.  
  
"Yeah. She's got her ideas." They came out from the shadow of the rubble and Sam stumbled, staring. The edge of the crater was about twenty feet away, sides and hazy floor a strange, green-tinted grey, lines of tarnished silver seemingly cut into it. A pattern – something so familiar – but Sam didn't have time to take it in because...  
  
Something was moving – stirring – all along the floor of the crater. Like black oil in water it shifted and curled, fluid. Darting in from every side – flowing upward with a low, keening hum that was like the whine of a badly-tuned engine. It pierced through Sam's bones – made his teeth ache and his head pound and Ava was down on her knees, holding her temples. Jake dropped down beside her, pulling her close and Andy was backing up the path, eyes wide.  
  
Shouting – they were all shouting but Sam couldn't hear anything – couldn't see anything but the twisting columns of smoke that rose, up and up into the air, writhing and darting and _shrieking_ at him. Demons. Hundreds of them disembodied and trapped and they were all – they knew, they _wanted_...  
  
Sam felt his knees going, the whining hum making him dizzy – making him sick. The cold stone underfoot jolted his knees and scraped his palms and he was vaguely aware of Ava shouting something. Ava and Andy and Jake all together, hurling Latin like arrows until the pressure and noise snapped off like a switch thrown and Sam looked up, panting. Sight blurred with tears that he wiped away with the back of his hand. The demons were gone – chased away – and Dean was standing there, his face a mask. He had the Colt in his hand, and it was pointed straight at Sam.  
  
"Guess you're not quite right after all, huh, little brother?"  
  
  
"Dean –" Sam reached out to him and Dean took one decisive step back, the Colt rock-solid in his hand. "No, Dean –"  
  
"Wait, wait, hold on –" Ava was struggling to her feet, a thin line of blood streaking down from her nose. Jake smudged it with the tail of his scarf and from the overturned wheelbarrow came a vague noise, like someone choking. Or laughing. Sam-dog and Janis were both barking, deep and hoarse and terrible and Sam wanted to cover his ears.  
  
"They know him, or he called them or – something –" Dean's voice was shaky where his hand wasn't and Sam sat back on his heels, hands on his thighs. Trying hard not to look like someone who called demons or knew demons or _fuck_ , wasn't human.  
  
"Yeah, but...it's not... Dean, let me figure this out."  
  
Dean's gaze flicked to Ava and then back and Sam didn't breathe until the minutest relaxing of Dean's shoulders told him Dean was listening. Was waiting. "Okay. What are you gonna do?"  
  
Ava leaned on Jake for a moment and then stepped away from him, sniffing once. "I need to talk to the demon in possession."  
  
"Fuck," Jake muttered. But he went to the wheelbarrow and jerked it upright – hauled the duffel back into it and took the lock into his hand. "Dean?"  
  
"Head's up." Dean tossed the key over and Jake undid the lock – opened the duffel and pushed the stiff canvas sides down.  
  
The person inside looked... _*No, body. That's a body...fuck...*_ It _looked_ like a body. Skin a bluish-grey, lips nearly black, bitten and ragged. The eyes sunk back into their sockets so far they seemed more like pits than orbs. The gag was shredded but still intact and Jake picked the knot loose with a few twists of the tip of a knife – pushed the ragged twist of cloth down around his – its – neck. The demon moved, then – cracked its jaw like a snake swallowing an egg, grotesque dislocation that it didn't even seem to notice. A grey tongue swiped across the bloodless lips and then it was looking at Sam. Coyote-grin on that hollow, sunken face that made Sam shudder in revulsion.  
  
It tried to say something but it couldn't – the sounds that emerged from its ruined mouth were broken and horrible, rusty metal scraping over bone and Andy flinched away, turning to look out over the crater.  
  
"Well, hell." Ava sniffed again – looked over at Jake. "Okay?"  
  
"Fuck. Yeah, okay." Sam watched, confused, as Ava put her fingertips to her temples. She shut her eyes, concentrating, and suddenly the body's mouth gaped wide and the demon streamed out with a tin-whistle shriek. It coiled overhead for a moment and then arrowed straight at Ava – and into her.  
  
"Don't!" Sam lurched upward, trying to get to his feet and Dean took three fast steps forward and pushed him down, hard. "Ava, Jesus –!"  
  
"Don't move, damnit," Dean snapped and Sam sank back onto his heels again, fists clenched on his thighs.  
  
Ava's eyes snapped open, blank and black and horrible and Sam shuddered. She looked at him for a long moment, her head cocking this way and then that. Then she smiled. It made Sam's blood run cold. "Oh, lost lamb, aren't you? Agnus Dei." The black eyes flicked up to Dean and back, and the smile twisted. "You're not right at all, wanderer. Not even remotely...right. Why don't you just...flip that switch, huh? Turn on the lights, little brother," it said, hand lifting as if to touch Sam's cheek and Sam recoiled, scrabbling backward on palms and heels and ass, shaking.  
  
"Get the fuck away from me, _Ava_ , God –"  
  
"Get rid of it, Ava," Jake said, and Ava blinked. Her own blue eyes now, instead of the black shark orbs of the demon. She walked to the edge of the crater – walked out _over_ it. Two, three – four steps onto nothingness and the trapped demons swirled up again, darting like swallows against the invisible walls. Ava tipped her head back and screamed and the scream dragged out, on and on, breathless shriek until the demon inside her was _out_ , poised above her like a stooping hawk. Ava stepped shakily backward, one careful step at a time and as her foot hit solid ground the demon struck.  
  
Andy grabbed her arm and jerked her across the edge, into his chest and the demon slammed the ward, flattening like wind-blown smoke for a moment, howling. Jake stepped up to pull Ava into his arms and she sagged there, shuddering. The body in the wheelbarrow looked like a deflated balloon. A sack of grey flesh and rags of hair and Sam rubbed his stinging palms on his thighs, unsurprised to see dark streaks of blood. _*Over now. God, he'll never...he thinks... What the fuck was it saying, what does it mean? God, never should have come here, never should have...tried...*_  
  
Dean was watching him – watching Ava – and she finally lifted her head and looked back at him. Nodded, just once, and Dean sighed. Let the trigger on the Colt ease forward, and then he was sliding the gun into his jacket, jaw set and eyes dark. He walked over to Sam and after a moment held his hand out.  
  
"Come on – we've got a body to burn."  
  
  
They were arguing. Low voices, no big gestures but an argument all the same. Sam sat on a battered couch, plate of lasagna on his knees, cup of milk by his foot and no appetite whatsoever. He could still smell the greasy, burnt-pork reek of the body they'd burned – the acid and gut churning stench of charred bone that lingered in his clothes and hair. He's scrubbed in a big, industrial stainless-steel sink with Lava soap and he was still...tainted.  
  
The lasagna was white and tomato-red and ropey with cheese. It looked like something off the floor of a slaughterhouse and Sam stood up fast, teeth clamped shut and his belly heaving. In their corner, both dogs' heads went up, muzzles swinging toward Sam, alert and wary. Sam abandoned the plate on a counter top and strode toward the front door, concentrating on not throwing up until he was out in the snow. He was totally unprepared for Dean's fingers sinking into his shoulder like a steel trap, jerking him around and into the bunker's cinder block wall.  
  
"Where the fuck are you going?" Sam just stared at him, one hand on his belly and the other one on Dean's arm, clutching tight. Breathing through his nose in panting, strangled breaths and Dean's expression went from furious to knowing to fed up. "Shit. Come on." Dean jerked him away from the wall and propelled him up the hall – through the small entryway and to the door. Sam fumbled with the locks and Dean muttered a curse – pushed him aside and did it himself. The door swung ponderously and Sam pushed through, scraping his shoulder and hip and then stumbling out into the snow. The air was crisp and cold and smelled only of snow and Sam took a hard, deep breath. Took another and another, swallowing and shaking and wondering if Dean would shoot him if he just...walked away.  
  
"You gonna hurl?"  
  
Sam breathed in again – swallowed and shook his head. "Yeah. N-no, I'm...okay, I'm good." There was a mound of irregular snow heaped up beside the door and Sam reached out and scooped some up – put it in his mouth. It was so cold it burned, and his mouth felt hot afterward. He wiped his damp fingers over his face – back through his hair and finally turned around. Dean was leaning in the doorway, arms crossed. Looking a little worried and also looking like he was pissed for caring.  
  
"Sorry, I...the body, it was...I'm not used to... We mostly just burned old bones."  
  
Dean just nodded, still staring. Still looking pissed off and Sam just stood there. Starting to shiver just a little because the storm they'd been outrunning before had caught up and the wind was stronger now, full of ice-crystals and the faint smell of smoke. The sky was low and heavy, bruise-black clouds blocking the sun and the windmills whirring like bees, blurs of color that made Sam dizzy.  
  
"So what are you hiding?" Dean asked, and Sam blinked and shook his head.  
  
"I –"  
  
"Don't give me any shit. Just tell me what you're hiding. Tell me what the _fuck_ you thought was so fucking _unimportant_ about you and demons that you didn't even _bother_ to fill me in." Dean's voice was sharp with sarcasm and anger, rough with cold.  
  
"Dean, I –" Sam wrapped his arms around himself and rubbed, hunching, trying to keep the warmth close. "It wasn't – like that."  
  
"Then what the fuck _was_ it like, huh?" Dean wasn't moving – wasn't doing anything but Sam could see the barely-leashed tension quivering through his shoulders. Could see where his hands were knotted into fists, shoved under his biceps. Teeth clenched and probably grinding and all of it told Sam he was about five seconds or five wrong words from being decked. Or shot.  
  
"We fought some demons right after...right after I died. The seven deadly sins." Dean's eyebrows went up and Sam nodded, fleeting smile on his lips. "Yeah, _the_ seven deadly sins. Anyway...one of them said...told me I was the 'boy-king'. Said I was supposed to lead them. And you – Dean – talked to this other demon, and she said she was ready to...follow me. Ready to be a soldier in my army. They all thought..." Sam stopped and rubbed his hands up and down his arms a little, looking up and away – out over the crater. The demons milled in it like fish, vague blurs against the haze of snow dropping like a curtain across the horizon.  
  
"They thought I was gonna lead them. Be the general of a demon army and take over the world." Sam looked back at Dean – met his gaze. Saw fear there, and anger. "But I _didn't_. I didn't do that. I didn't ever even...no matter what they said, I never –" Sam stepped toward Dean, almost close enough to touch. Willing his brother to listen – to _believe_. Praying to a God he still believed in – but didn't count on – to please just... _*Let him understand. Let him...trust me. Please, just...let me have my brother...*_  
  
Dean's gaze was intent – hot and unsettling and Sam did his best to return it unflinchingly. The worst was out – whatever had made the demons think he was something special...think he was like _them_ – was laid bare, now. All Sam could do was wait, and hope Dean understood. Hope he believed.  
  
"You've gone of your own free will into two of the most heavily warded places I know," Dean said finally. Slowly, like he was testing his words before he said them. "Ava thinks it's because you're like them. Like her and Jake and everybody. And that whatever happened back – there –" Dean made a little gesture with his hand and Sam didn't know where he meant, exactly. "Whatever happened when you died.... She thinks it marked you."  
  
"Well, yeah. I _died_."  
  
"Yeah. You died, and I brought you back." Dean's shoulders sagged down and his hands swung free, his right coming up to settle on Sam's chest. Right over his heart. His hand was warm through the layers of thermal and flannel Sam wore. "I mean...he did."  
  
"It seems like it was you," Sam said. He couldn't help leaning into Dean's touch. Couldn't help yearning toward the warmth of Dean's body – toward the solid safety of it, the familiar and unshakeable bedrock that had steadied him all his life. "It seems like...it was always..."  
  
"You," Dean said, barely above a whisper and then he was leaning in and they were kissing, Sam's fingers twisting helplessly in Dean's shirts, taste of salt and whiskey on Dean's tongue. Dean's hand sliding over his collarbone – up the back of his neck – sent a twist of arousal through Sam. Sharp, hot little pulse of need and _want_ that made Sam gasp in a ragged, stuttering breath. Made him jerk Dean up tight against him, hip to hip and Sam's thigh pushing between Dean's, chapped lips and the rough edge of a ragged fingernail.  
  
"Dean, I mean it, I'm not...I'd never..." He talked into Dean's mouth – over the little hitch of breath when their groins rubbed together, too many layers and too much pressure and God, not enough... "I'm not one of them, I'm not –"  
  
"Shut up, Jesus, I know, Ava _said_..." Dean pushed clumsily at the hems of Sam's layered shirts, worming his way under flannel, thermal and t-shirt to skin and Sam jumped, twisting away.  
  
"Fuck, cold!"  
  
"Suck it up," Dean growled and dug his fingers into Sam's ribs – kissed him hard enough to hurt and left them both panting, tangled up together, snow in their hair. "C'mon, your dinner's getting cold." Dean backed off a step and Sam stopped him, hand fisted in Dean's shirt.  
  
"You really – you just...believe me? Just like that?"  
  
Dean gazed at Sam for a long moment and then he shrugged a little – looked down at where his hand had curled over Sam's. "Yeah. Just like that."

 

 

 

"We used rail road track. Max just peeled it up off the ties like string cheese or something. Then Scott, he just, like, fused it, you know? With his Electro-touch." Andy flicked his lighter and held it to the bowl of his pipe. The pipe was anodized blue, green and pink and shaped like a fish. Sort of.  
  
"It seemed kind of...dug in," Sam said, remembering his long look into the trap, greasy smoke from the funeral pyre still stinging his nose. The demons had swarmed and darted not five feet away, wailing and Sam had gritted his teeth and ignored them.  
  
"Oh, yeah, that's Sherrie. She can control, like...earth? Rocks and stuff. She dug the trap out of the ground and then the Wonder Twins filled it in with the tracks." Andy inhaled hard and the sweet-sharp scent of pot filled Sam's nose.  
  
"Wonder Twins?" Sam glanced across the room at Max and Scott, shoulder to shoulder, making a cross for the body they'd burned. Scott's fingers touching the rebar that Max held and twisted in mid air, little sparks flying and the ozone-smell of heated metal as he fused the lengths together.  
  
"Yeah, they're pretty much inseparable." Andy spoke in a breathless squeak, holding the pot smoke in his lungs, gesturing with the pipe and lighter. "Max had this totally shitty childhood and Scott's the only one that keeps him, you know...calm." Andy blew the smoke upward, away from Sam – offered the pipe. "You want?"  
  
"Nah. Think I'd better skip it." Sam let his gaze wander around the room, taking in the motley collection of salvaged couches and chairs, the scatter of kid's toys and the ranks of books and DVDs along the walls. A corner was set up with easels, paints and other supplies and the efforts of the Roach Motel's child population was pinned up on corkboards or displayed on table tops. Dean was in another corner of the room, inspecting a cache of weapons with Jake that someone 'on walkabout', as Andy said, had found in a basement in the suburbs of Detroit.  
  
Somewhere behind a shelf there was a tv on, showing the limited stuff that was available. Sam wanted to watch it and shied away from it simultaneously, frankly too freaked out to confront all the differences. To see all the things they'd lost. Over all was the hum of conversation – the coming and going of the residents, the shouts and laughter of the kids playing. Music, too, and noise from the kitchen area, more cooking smells that threatened Sam's not-quite-settled stomach.  
  
There were over a hundred people living semi-permanently at the Motel. A series of hidden, underground lakes had been revealed by the making of the crater – lakes that bubbled and steamed, heated by magma somewhere below. The Motel had tapped them for energy and heat. Strung out around the crater were half-buried greenhouses where they grew herbs, vegetables and fruit. And pot. Andy had gleefully promised Sam a tour later, if he wanted. The Motel was a strange, busy, mix-and-match kind of place – the first place beside the Roadhouse where Sam had seen more than ten people at a time. That, coupled with the low, mostly windowless confines of the bunker, was making Sam feel crowded and antsy. Claustrophobic, almost.  
  
Sam nodded absently at Andy and got up – moved slowly around the room, cataloging. Books and movies, toys and newspapers, gadgets and practical things. Some of them intimately familiar, some of them utterly foreign. It was unsettling – a little frightening – and Sam just wanted to sit down somewhere and be still. On his third pass around the room, Dean stood up from his chair and grabbed his arm, dragging him toward a door – a hall – a little alcove that held flashlights and lanterns and boxes of candles.  
  
"What the hell is wrong with you? You're pacing around in there like a fucking schizo."  
  
"Man, I – I'm just not used to all the people, you know? It's just...so crowded." Dean stared up at him for a moment and Sam shifted uneasily under his gaze, hunching his shoulders and tucking his chin down – letting his bangs fall into his eyes. Hiding, like he used to do when he was fifteen, sixteen, seventeen and taller than everybody – taller than _Dad_ and Dean, too and it had felt so damn wrong.  
  
Dean's palm hit his shoulder, driving him back into the wall – making his head and hands go up, automatic defensive posture. "Dude. Stand up straight, for fuck's sake. You're gonna be a hunchback."  
  
"Oh, fuck off, shorty," Sam muttered, but he squared his shoulders, unconscious parade rest and Dean grinned.  
  
"Don't get mouthy, kid. I can kick your ass from here to next week."  
  
"Big talk," Sam said. He relaxed a little – leaned back against the wall behind him. Hooked his thumbs into his front jeans pockets and let his head tip back, looking down his nose at Dean. "Got anything to back up that mouth?"  
  
"I got the whole package," Dean muttered, and then _that mouth_ was on Sam's neck, teeth nipping over his jugular and Sam gasped softly, scrabbling to catch Dean's hip, wrist – something. "I get that you're a little buggy, man," Dean said, breath puffing over Sam's skin. "But it's too damn close to Solstice and sunset – we're here for the night." Dean drew back just a little – pushed his cheek against Sam's jaw at the same time his thigh pushed against Sam's groin – against his trapped, half-hard cock. "They've got lots of room here. _Private_ rooms."  
  
Sam dug his fingers in, up under Dean's shirts, fingertips catching at muscle and bone. He wanted to grind against Dean until they were both breathless and boneless and sated – was _shaking_ with how much he wanted it. "God, you...you w-want –"  
  
"Fuck yes. I want, Sam." Dean turned his head enough to put his mouth to Sam's and Sam kissed him, hard – fucking into the wet heat of Dean's mouth, tasting the burnt-sugar of pot and the mellow tang of beer. Running his hands up Dean's back and jerking him close, hands curving between Dean's shoulder blades. Making an embarrassing, helpless sort of noise when Dean's fingers curled into his hair and held him still – when Dean's teeth closed on his lower lip and sank in, just a little.  
  
" _Dean_..." Sam whispered, and Dean pulled back – stepped back, his eyes huge and dark, his mouth wet.  
  
"Got a few hours to kill. We should...should just go back. News from the satellite'll be on in a while, ought'a watch."  
  
"Yeah, okay, sure." Sam felt dizzy – felt like he was floating an inch or so above the ground, everything in him loose and unfettered and just...spinning. Dean reached out and put his hand on Sam's chest, over his heart, and it was like a ground wire, steadying him down – giving him a minute or two to just breathe. Finally he nodded and Dean grinned – patted his chest a couple times and went back into the main room. After a moment more, Sam followed.  
  
Of course, it was only three in the afternoon, and if Sam had felt twitchy and on edge before, now he felt like he actually wanted to punch something. Wanted to work out all the tingling, prickling energy Dean's touch had freed by going a round or two, skin and muscle and bone. At this point, though, it could only end in some kind of violent, up-against-the-wall, mutual jerk-off and that...  
  
Well, it wasn't what he wanted, oddly enough. Not that it hadn't been totally fucking _awesome_ a time or two in the past, but...  
  
Not this time. Not here, and not now. This time – this _first_ time... Sam shook his head, smiling to himself. _*Could I get any more Young Adult Novel? Wow. Fuck it. I want that tour of the pot garden.*_ Sam got up with purpose and went to find Andy.  
  
  
  
Moonrise – calculated but not seen through the sheet of clouds overhead – found Sam in an observation bubble at the far end of the main living bunker. It was a polycarbonate dome salvaged off some expensive hotel or mall, etched with runes and ringed with silver and iron. The cold came through it like water, tangible against Sam's skin – shivering down into his lungs with every breath. The rumpled fields of snow and earth spread out on all sides, gleaming dully in the trickles and pin points of light that escaped from the various bunkers and greenhouses. It was still snowing and Sam stood for a long, long time staring straight up into the sky, the snow whirling down and down like falling stars – endless tunnel of movement and white. Aching to be out of the Roach Motel – to be away from the demons and the people who could bend steel with a thought – start fires and move mountains and stop hearts.  
  
The slow and stately dance of the snow made him dizzy finally, and he closed his eyes – tipped his head back against the dome. The cold sank into his skull, making it ache just there. Sam stayed until he was cramped with chill, shivering deep down in the pit of his stomach. Dean's hand on his knee startled him.  
  
"Sam?"  
  
"Hey – hey, Dean."  
  
Dean was standing below him on the spiral stairs that led to the bubble, head and shoulders above the level of the floor. "What the fuck are you doing?"  
  
"I just n-needed it to be quiet for a m-minute."  
  
"Been more like two hours. Get down here." Dean retreated backwards and Sam straightened from his unconscious hunch and followed, stiff and shaky. The humid heat of the bunker was almost smothering. Sam pulled the insulated trap door shut behind him and navigated the stairs, feet slipping a little on the metal risers. At the bottom Dean was frowning at him, looking a little harried.  
  
"Sorry," Sam mumbled, and Dean grabbed a handful of Sam's shirts and swung him against the wall.  
  
"I didn't know where you were, Sam. You're supposed to check in."  
  
"I was just – here, Dean. I'm not gonna get hurt here."  
  
"This isn't a safe place, Sam."  
  
"What?" Sam stared at Dean, absently curling his fingers around Dean's fist, tugging to get Dean to let go of his shirt. Dean didn't seem to notice. "Dean, this place has more wards than _people_. And the people can do some pretty amazing things – how is this place not safe?"  
  
"You think a trap full of demons is safe? Or a fucking underground city full of scanners? Every place like this is like a...a beacon to any evil thing that passes by. The only reason the demons were at Bobby's is because of that ward he made. They're attracted to the power, even if it can fucking kill 'em."  
  
"But...there are _kids_ here." Sam finally managed to pry Dean's hand loose but he didn't let go, Dean's hand incredibly warm in his own, his freezing fingers throbbing gently as the heat started to soak in.  
  
"Yeah, well...people do what they gotta do." Dean stared down at their linked hands, frowning a little. Lost in thought for a moment and his voice dropped down low, nearly to a whisper. "Safest place to be is on the road. If you keep moving – keep to yourself – they don't even notice you."  
  
"That's pretty fucking lonely," Sam said finally, and Dean shrugged a little – tugged his hand free.  
  
"I can slip around and get the sons of bitches before they notice me." He reached up – patted Sam's cheek and winced a little. "Christ, you're a fucking popsicle. C'mon."  
  
"C'mon where?" Sam asked, walking after Dean down the corridor. His thighs burned, chilled flesh heating back up, the blood pumping hard to the surface.  
  
"Where you can get warm, dumbass."  
  
  
  
They walked _down_ , deeper into the earth, and Sam imagined it getting thicker and thicker overhead. Like going down into a grave, and he had to clench his fists tight, nails digging into his palms to keep from breaking and running. He wasn't claustrophobic – he didn't imagine the walls were closing in, or the roof collapsing. He just... He'd _died_ , now he was buried. His brain kept grasshoppering around in weird little circle, seeing the striated earth, the crumbling rock and the shale that heat from the falling object had blasted into slate, iron oxidizing in seconds and turning the stone a strange sort of rusty green. There were work lights about every five feet, strung on long bundles of wire and bright orange extension cords.  
  
 _*This whole place is a grave. It's dying – it's Hell, Dean said. We're all in Sheol, or Limbo, or...somewhere. Not living. Barely alive...*_ The tiny differences – the missing things, and the things that made no sense – were adding up. Wearing Sam down. _*Maybe this is why the angel never let me stay. Maybe you just go crazy. Maybe the universe knows I'm supposed to be dead and it's trying to fix it. God, just...want to get out of here, want...*_  
  
"Sam? Hey, man....Sammy?"  
  
"Huh?" Sam realized he'd stopped dead, right in the middle of the corridor. In the middle of wherever they were going, just standing there staring at the rock of the corridor wall. More like a tunnel, really, but weirdly smooth and regular.  
  
"Dude, what the fuck? Are you freaking out on me? Are you – did you, I mean, if you don't want –" Dean stood there, hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans, shoulders hunched – eyes a little wide, looking acutely uncomfortable and what he was saying suddenly made sense.  
  
"What? No! I'm just...it's..." Sam dragged his fingers back through his hair, frustrated – nearly angry, but why or at who he had no idea. "This place is just...kinda gettin' to me, man. I'm not...I'm just..." He looked helplessly at Dean, homesickness and longing and misery welling up in him. The only thing that felt right – that felt like _home_ – was Dean. He just...wanted...Dean. "This place isn't home, you know? It's just...not home."  
  
Dean took a step closer – untucked a hand from his pocket and reached hesitantly for Sam's shoulder. He squeezed gently, smiling just a little when Sam swayed into his touch. "I get it, Sam. I really do. I mean...after Dad...? After...I didn't come in for a year. I just...ran the roads, did jobs...holed up in empty houses and stuff. Camped out on Mount Rainier for a month in the summer. I couldn't stand to be around people, I was..." Dean laughed, but his eyes were focused elsewhere, remembering. "I didn't trust anybody – people made me so fuckin' jumpy I couldn't stand it. Couldn't breathe...fuck, I pulled a gun on Pastor Jim. That's when I knew I had to get the fuck away and just..." He stopped – looked up at Sam and shrugged a little.  
  
"Just what, Dean?"  
  
"Forget, I guess. Figure it all out and...find a place to put it in my head. Dad said...when he was in the war, over in 'Nam? He just had to be a soldier, be...someone else. Had to get into that headspace fuckin' fast or he'd have gotten his head blown off. That's what I had to do. Had to figure out how to...just..."  
  
He stopped again, his eyes shimmering. Too full of heartbreak and sorrow, too close to breaking down. Sam put his hand up, over Dean's. Squeezed the rough knuckles with his fingers, ducking his head a little to catch Dean's gaze.  
  
"Be alone? To do it...alone?"  
  
Dean nodded – swallowed and sniffed and sighed. "Yeah. Me and Dad, we didn't always get along but we always had each other's backs, you know? Always knew I could trust him to _be_ there. That was...hard to live without." Dean took a deep breath – let his hand slide out from under Sam's. "C'mon – you're still fucking freezing. Almost there." He turned – started walking – and Sam took three long steps and caught up with him – caught his shoulder, made him turn and kissed him. Trying to say, with the press of lips and the slide of tongues – pressure of his arms around Dean's ribs - that Dean wasn't alone, that he had someone at his back. That Sam was there, and they were going to be okay. They were both...going to be okay.

 

 

By the time Sam pulled back from the kiss it had gone from slow, soft and comforting to something else entirely. Something that made his hands shake and his heart kick in his chest, rabbit-thump behind his ribs that almost hurt. Dean was staring at him, _that_ look on his face again. That dark, hot light smoldering behind half-shut lids, his lips flushed redder, color high in his cheeks. It made Sam's belly clench tight, little knot of heat and tension, the shivers from being cold chased out by the sudden rush of heat.  
  
"Dean, I...want –"  
  
"Fuck, yes," Dean muttered, and twisted his fingers into Sam's shirts, reversing their direction back up the corridor and towing Sam along behind. There was an immediate – almost painful – flashback to being six, seven, eight years old, when Dean _*my Dean, not this one...but maybe this one, he had me for six years, I had him...*_ would latch on and drag him along, hurrying his short legs and keeping him upright.  
  
Sam snorted laughter at the thought – laughed again when Dean all but growled, turning half way around and jerking him closer, making their booted feet collide.  
  
"What's so fucking funny?"  
  
"You – this...nothing, it's...fuck, where –?" Sam grabbed at Dean's shoulders to keep from stumbling – slid his fingertips across the velvet-furred nape of Dean's neck and had to bite his lip from making an embarrassing noise of pure need.  
  
"Here, in h-ere –" Dean said, voice catching and tripping as Sam's fingers rubbed up the nap of bristle-cut hair into the longer strands that covered his skull. Never long enough for Sam to get a good grip and it irritated him at the same time that he loved it, the slippery-smooth plush of it that was like cat's fur.  
  
Dean rattled a doorknob and shoved, cursing, and they stumbled over a threshold into a dark space. A moment later, Dean's grip on Sam's shirt eased and then his Zippo snapped to life, sun-bright. He was lifting the chimney on a lantern, lighting the blackened stub of wick. Sam pushed the door shut – groped for a lock and found it, sending the bolt home with a satisfying little _snick_ of steel. The old-amber light of the lantern flared up, filling the room, and Sam had time to take in the weirdly smooth walls and what looked like bales of cotton sheets before Dean was on him again.  
  
Shoving him hard into the door, thump of Sam's head and his elbow before he got his balance and his control back. And lost it just as fast because Dean's hands were in his hair, pulling him down, and Dean's mouth was on his, urgent and wolf-sharp, tongue and teeth and the prickle of stubble, Dean's thigh between his, rocking up, and Dean's groin pressing hot and heavy into Sam's. The burr of denim on denim and Dean's tongue snake-flicking into his mouth. Sam caught it in his teeth – sucked it against his own, his hands finally coordinating enough to catch at Dean's hip and side and cling tight.  
  
Pull him close and closer, burrowing under too many shirts, frantic for the touch of the skin that radiated heat through three layers. "Jesus – _fuck_ , God damn...shirts, Dean –"  
  
"Yeah, yeah, shut up," Dean muttered, hands slipping out of Sam's hair as his mouth pressed down again, cutting off any sound and half of Sam's air. Dean grabbed at the hems of flannel, Henley and t-shirt and dragged them all upward. Over and off, jerking back only far enough for them to clear his face and then his mouth was back on Sam, on his jaw – throat. Biting and sucking and Sam's head thumped back a second time, his hands tingling as he swept them over Dean's skin. "Shit, lemme –"  
  
Dean shoved Sam back – third thump and Sam let out a breathless, dizzy laugh because Jesus _Christ_ , he was gonna fall on his ass in a minute, seeing stars and oxygen deprived and his heart pounding, pounding, pounding. And then Dean was grinding him hard into the door, thigh almost painfully tight in the V of Sam's legs, pinning him there while he snatched at Sam's hems and jerked Sam's own borrowed layers off. Rattling the lantern when he tossed them aside and Sam caught his breath and jerked Dean in close again, his mouth latching onto the long curve where shoulder met throat.  
  
" _Fuck_...me," Dean rasped, stubs of his bitten-down nails digging involuntarily into Sam's ribs and Sam hissed and twisted and ground down on Dean's thigh, slicking his tongue over the flesh he'd just bitten.  
  
"Yeah, I'm gonna...just...fuck you so good –"  
  
" _God_." Dean's tone was frantic – thick with need – and his hands scraped down Sam's sides and scrabbled at his belt. Jerked at the buckle hard enough to bring Sam up off the door and then back down, _thump!_ again and Sam started laughing, couldn't help it, laughing and yanking at Dean's belt and then the button and fly underneath, worn denim shredding a little under his pulls, sudden chill of the door against his tail-bone when Dean finally got his jeans open and down.  
  
"Fuck, man, shoes, I – boots –"  
  
"Yeah, got it..." Dean clearly didn't, though, because in the next heartbeat his hand was worming between Sam's thighs, cupping his balls and tugging – grinning against Sam's mouth as his callused fingers slid over Sam's cock – curved and held and squeezed, knuckles pushing into Sam's belly and the ragged edge of a hangnail catching at the crown as Dean's thumb rubbed over the head. Sam groaned, knees bending – belly shivering as Dean stroked up and over, up and over. Hand at the back of Sam's neck, digging in and Sam grabbed a handful of muscle – ass and thigh – and moved. Shoved Dean back two, three, four steps until they both went down, tumbling into the stacked bundles of sheets.  
  
Dean was laughing now, hiccups of mirth that made his belly jump under Sam's palm and Sam got a thigh across Dean's and slithered down, rubbing his cheek against the warm skin, biting at the line of Dean's ribcage and then the ripples of his abdomen, finding the curve of his navel and catching the rim with his teeth and tongue.  
  
Dean's hips arched up and his hand was in Sam's hair again, pushing through it, tugging at it. Sam skated his palm up Dean's ribs, fingertips finding one peaked nipple as his mouth found the velvet head of Dean's cock. He pushed down, his mouth slurring open, blood-heat and the savory-salt taste of pre-come blooming over his tongue. "Christ, fuck –" Dean jackknifed up, ribs bumping the top of Sam's head and then he was hauling Sam up, bruising grip on his biceps, kicking to get Sam's leg off and rolling them over. "Want...like this –" His mouth coming down mid-word, mid-thought and finding Sam's again, icy press of his belt buckle to Sam's belly and then the hot curve of Dean's hip – his cock – fitting like a puzzle-piece into the cradle of Sam's hip and belly.  
  
"Yeah, yeah –" Sam ran his hands up the braced, shivering muscles of Dean's arms – slid his fingers into Dean's hair and pulled him down. Dean groaned into his mouth as Sam kissed him – as Sam's hips lifted, searching for the friction – the heat. Dean pressed down – shifted and slid and shuddered. Sam dug one heel in and pushed back – twisted and bucked and got a hand in the small of Dean's back, pressing him closer. "Fuck, wanted – thought we could – slower –"  
  
"Are you out of your fuckin' mind?" Dean gasped. He slithered a little sideways and tucked one arm closer – got the other down between them, fingers trapping their cocks together, rough palm and ragged nails and his hips working in stuttering arcs as Sam threw his head back and tried to breathe. "Want it right now, want to know what you look like, want to feel you lose it over my fucking – hand – Sam, fuck –"  
  
Sam lifted his head and caught Dean's mouth with his, palm cupping Dean's skull, his other hand skidding lower. Flex and bunch of the dense muscles there and Sam sank his fingers in deep and hauled, wanting Dean closer – wanting him to move faster, harder. Pressure and friction making him warm – making him hot. Sweat-slick slide that wasn't really a slide, stutter and catch and Dean's hand squeezing – rubbing – his thumb again just _there_ and Sam wanted to scream.  
  
Wanted to climb inside Dean and feel him from the inside – wind around his bones and never let go. Dean broke the kiss on a ragged gasp and Sam put his mouth on Dean's throat. Column of tendon and muscle and skin, and there, right there, Dean's heartbeat shivering under Sam's mouth and Sam pushed his tongue flat. Tasted sweat and the sour-sweet of soap and something else, smoky and spicy and so fucking good. Sam licked that spot again – heard his own mouth whining out some kind of helpless, ridiculous noise. His whole body shivering, shuddering, moving against Dean's on pure instinct, mindless and ruthless and selfish.  
  
The knot of heat in his belly was a blazing coal – a fanned flame that twisted tighter and higher with every grind of Dean's cock against his – every pinching rub of palm and fingers. Dean's chest against his, Dean's thigh between his, Dean's knee digging into muscle and it _hurt_ and it was perfect and it was not enough, not quite enough, just _there_ and Sam came with a shout, arching up hard, fists closing on hair and ass and making Dean hiss in surprised discomfort. Sam's hips snapped up, again and again and Dean was making that same noise – breathless and wordless and Christ, stupid, and Sam fitted his mouth over Dean's heartbeat and _bit_.  
  
"Jesus _fuck_ -" Dean yelped, and then he was coming too, rutting down onto Sam in vicious little jerks and Sam growled around his mouthful of flesh – growled and shook and let his teeth slip-snap off, getting both arms tight around Dean and crushing him close. Orgasm feathering out into nothing, spastic jerks and thrusts settling to little hitches – to an all-over throb of Sam's body, his cock thrumming along with his heart and the simple act of Dean dragging his hand free making Sam groan and try to squeeze his thighs closed, everything in that moment just too much.  
  
Sam let his head thump back against the sheets, eyes closed on spangled darkness, lungs heaving and snatching for air. Dean groaned and pushed halfheartedly at him and then slumped back into position, his breath hot in the crook of Sam's neck. Sam could feel Dean's heartbeat, a double-time tattoo against his own chest, and he let his thumbs rub slow circles on the skin under them. Patch at the top of Dean's ass – somewhere under his shoulder blade.  
  
"Fuckin' vampire," Dean said finally, his voice muffled, his words a vibration of air and lips and tongue against Sam's throat.  
  
"You liked it," Sam said, and Dean shifted and lifted his head and in the antique brass of the lamplight his eyes looked liked smoky emeralds, impossibly big, impossibly green.  
  
"Did he?"  
  
Sam blinked – dragged his hand up Dean's back, nails skipping lightly over each small rise of bone. "He..." Sam stopped, thinking, and for one panicked moment – infinite and weightless and utterly crushing – he couldn't remember. Then the memory came, soft-edged and wisp thin. "Yeah. He did." Sam felt – or thought he felt – a little shiver go through Dean. Thought he saw something drop across his gaze, a veil to hide behind and Sam felt a sudden sharp twist in his chest, like his heart had dropped a beat.  
  
"I didn't...think. Dean – I wasn't pretending –"  
  
"I know you weren't," Dean said. His voice was hoarse and he pushed himself up a little, disengaging. Sam let him go so far and then no further, forcing Dean to prop himself on one elbow, ribcage still pushing into ribcage and their legs still tangled, jeans and boots and belts sewing them together.  
  
"I bit my girlfriend, too. I have a kink," Sam said, solemn, and Dean's expression lightened, quicksilver grin flicking across his mouth.  
  
"You'll have to tell me all about 'em."  
  
"Maybe. If you ask nice." Sam lifted his hand – touched his fingertip to Dean's lip, lightly. Making Dean twitch away from the tickling touch. "Where's that scar from?"  
  
"Oh, fuck." Dean laughed, rueful. "That's my least cool scar."  
  
"What, some chick do it? Scratch you with her Lee Press Ons?"  
  
"Fuck you." Dean idly twisted his fingers under the thin cords of leather around Sam's wrist. "No, it was some dumb-ass kid in Seattle. Thought he was a gangster – went after me with this fucking straight razor. I dumped him into the Sound with a broken arm. Little shit. Couldn't have a drink for a month without it burning like hell."  
  
Sam stared at Dean until Dean looked up, and then Sam grinned. "You're right. That's lame."  
  
"Fucker." Dean surged up, his mouth coming down on Sam's, his hand yanking free of the cords and curling around the back of Sam's neck and Sam let himself sink into the kiss. Let Dean tangle his fingers in Sam's hair and hold him this way – that way. Let Dean nip at his mouth – tease with the lightest flicks of his tongue and then take his breath away when he pushed in deep, fucking Sam's mouth. Let him do whatever he wanted until they were both breathless, half hard and moving against each other like snakes.  
  
"Hey, Dean – wait, I –"  
  
"What, what..." Dean muttered, letting Sam push him an inch away.  
  
"I wanna do it again," Sam said, surprised at how raw his voice sounded. How broken. "But I wanna do it slow this time. I want...want to find out about... _you_. What you like...how you're different." Sam caught Dean's gaze and held it, hating the starved expression there – the baffled wonder and the half-hidden desperation. Nothing Dean should ever feel – nothing Sam ever wanted to see there again. He took a quick, ragged breath – forced a crooked smile. "Want a real bed and...I want some fucking lube."  
  
Dean laughed – choked little bark, and pushed himself upright, dragging Sam with him. "Anything for you, little brother. Anything for you."

 

 

 _Dean finally naked, nothing left between them but air and tension. And he **is** different. He's a little thinner than...than Sam's Dean. (Sam will **not** let himself think 'real Dean' because that's unfair, and it hurts.) Not sick-thin, just...rangier. Whipcord muscle over bone, product of a diet that's less junk food and more beans-and-rice, or whatever the Apocalypse Survivor special usually is. More physical labor, less routine training. This Dean has more scars, too. A silver lace of them over his winter-pale skin, some straight as razor cuts and some curving – ragged. One that looks like it might have come close to killing him, ugly pock of twisted flesh over his hip and Sam wants to touch it. Wants to learn it, understand it. Understand him.  
  
"What's this? Jesus, it's –"  
  
"Fucking rawhead, 'bout scooped my liver right out."  
  
"Holy... Is it sensitive? What if –"  
  
"Christ's sake, Sam!" Twisting **away** like a snake and that makes Dean's fingers shift to a whole new angle inside, and suddenly Sam doesn't care about scars or anything else. Just this, just Dean, just the raw-silk roughness of his skin under Sam's palms and the push-pull feel of Dean's callused fingers stroking inside him. Little, hitching lungful of air and Dean grins down at him, eyes smoky-dark in the dull gold of the lantern light. "You like that? That what you want?" he says, his voice a graveled purr, his free hand on Sam's belly, rubbing and stroking like he's petting Sam-dog.  
  
"Yeah, I...that...Dean, supposed to be...you...I –"  
  
"Later, you can do that later," Dean hushes, and his knee is pushing at Sam's thigh. His hand is, pushing the other back – pinning it down to Sam's ribs. Taking his breath away, making him small. Blunt, hot tip of Dean's cock skidding on lube and then pushing, pushing. Easing right in alongside his fingers and Sam can't breathe, can't breathe, oh **fuck** , it's good...  
  
"Ooh...oh gu-God..."  
  
"Like that, just...like that..." Dean murmurs, his mouth on the knob of Sam's knee – on his collar bone and then on Sam's mouth as he stutter-glides in and in, callused knuckles scraping as his fingers curl around his own cock and Sam's nails sink in, ribs and hip, more scars in the morning for Sam to press his lips to._  
  
"You awake over there, Sam?"  
  
"Huh?" Sam lifted his head, groggy, from the seat back. Sam-dog's chin was on his hair and he tugged free – wiped at it to make sure there was no dog drool. "Where – we there?"  
  
"'Bout half an hour." There was amusement in Dean's voice – amusement and maybe affection and Sam yawned wide enough to make his jaw ache, pushing his feet flat to the floor and doing his best to stretch his legs. Sam-dog made a little wuff sound, putting one paw on the seatback.  
  
"Back up, Sammy," Dean ordered, and Sam-dog sighed heavily, the paw slipping away. "He doesn't like being back there."  
  
"I'm...sorry." Sam twisted in his seat a little – held his hand up, fingers curled loosely over his palm. Sam-dog sniffed half-heartedly and sighed again and Sam gently rubbed the smooth curve of the dog's skull, sinking his fingers into the thick, black fur behind his ears. "Sorry, Sammy."  
  
"He'll get used to it," Dean said, finality in his tone and Sam ducked his head a little and turned back around, suppressing the idiot smile that wanted to stretch his mouth wide open.  
  
  
  
Bobby's place looked the same – for some stupid reason Sam expected it to be different, even though they'd barely been gone two days. Lisa's truck was there, and the kids were running with the dogs in the clear space between house and barn, yelling. Dean shut the car off and half-turned in his seat. "Come up," he said, and Sam-dog scrambled over the seat back and sat in the middle of the bench, ears pricked hard forward and his tail making tentative little sweeps against Sam's thigh. Every bit of his attention focused on Dean. "That's my boy, my good boy," Dean murmured, sinking both hands into the dog's ruff and scratching. "You know you're my number one guy, right Sammy? My good dog, good boy..." Dean's voice was low and honeyed; brimming with approval and outright love and it went straight to Sam's groin.  
  
 _*Jesus...Christ.*_ Sam scrabbled at the door handle and yanked it up – all but leapt out of the car, slamming the door behind him and taking a deep, hard breath of the cold air. _*Get a grip. Breathe.*_  
  
"Hi, Sam!" Daniel yelled a greeting from the middle of the milling pack of dogs, knotted and frayed length of rope in his hand. One of the dogs – a sort of hound/Sheppard mix – leaped for it, jaws snapping, and the boy laughed, spinning around.  
  
"Hey, Daniel." Sam pushed his hands back through his hair and took one more long breath, the air burning in his nostrils and making his eyes sting. The sky was ragged with clouds, tiny scraps of blue shimmering through the streamers of grey. The wind pushed at him, strong as ever, and he turned and opened the back door, hauling out their bags.  
  
Dean was climbing out on the other side – stood and watched Sam-dog leap away, joining the pack. "You all right?" he asked, and Sam hitched a duffel up higher onto his shoulder.  
  
"Yeah, I'm – good. All good."  
  
Dean's eyebrow went up, little smirk twisting his lips. "Let's go see what Bobby's got on the stove."  
  
"Sure, let's do that," Sam muttered, and followed Dean inside.  
  
  
"Lisa's goin' over to Deadwood 'til the Solstice is over," Bobby said. Lisa and her kids had packed up some preserves and some of the venison Dean had brought from Popeye and left right after lunch. Bobby was sitting in his ratty office chair, crutches propped behind him, both hands on the stump of his leg, knuckles digging in. He noticed Sam's flick of a glance and made a little grimace of irritation. "Gets to aching from the cold."  
  
"Yeah, I bet," Sam said. His own wrist, broken so long ago, still twinged from time to time. He couldn't imagine the ache of that severed limb. Bobby had lit three lanterns, lining them up on his table, the wicks turned up high. Coupled with the glow from the fireplace, they made Bobby's 'study' pretty bright.  
  
"Why're they goin' over there? She was just up there," Dean said, and Bobby shot him a look.  
  
"She doesn't wanna be here when the angel comes. Don't blame her, really – not with those kids. 'Sides, it's her sister up there. And they'll be happy to have a hunter with them for the Hibernal."  
  
"So you think it'll be here tomorrow, then?" Dean was feeding ragged slats of wood and bits of split logs into the fire, gaze intent and voice calm. Deceptively so.  
  
"Yeah, I do. Maybe you –"  
  
"I'm not going anywhere," Dean snapped, betraying himself, and Bobby made a small snort of laughter.  
  
"I know you're not, boy. Don't you wanna go give the barn a tour and get us a jug of the Recipe?"  
  
"Not really."  
  
"Git, boy," Bobby said – not unkind, but stern enough to make Sam twitch in his seat.  
  
Dean stood up slowly, brushing off his fingers – looking at Bobby with a little scowl drawing his eyebrows down. "Bobby –"  
  
"It's cool, Dean," Sam said. Finally catching on and feeling kind of stupid.  
  
Dean's scowling face swung from Bobby to Sam and he stood there, chewing on his lip. "Fine. Fuckers." He stomped out of the room – down the hall and through the kitchen and, after a moment's pause to get his coat – out the door. He didn't slam it.  
  
Sam let out a small sigh, and Bobby hitched himself a little higher up in his chair – pushed and pulled himself and his chair over to a crammed-full bookcase and started poking around. "Bobby, I –"  
  
"Don't _you_ start." Bobby looked at Sam over his shoulder for a moment and then went back to pulling out random books. "I believe your story, Sam. God knows, I've heard stranger ones. Seen some stuff you wouldn't believe. But..."  
  
"But?" Sam stood up, restless, and moved to the fireplace. There were wax-encrusted candlesticks staggered across the mantle, stumps of candles unlit. Scattered among the brass or glass or black-iron sticks were rocks and cats-eye shells, feathers and pinecones and twists of dried herbs. Sam picked up a blue jay feather and absently smoothed the vanes. "What do you think's gonna happen, Bobby?" There was a sigh, and Sam twirled the feather in his fingers, watching the light slide off the dull-blue and black stripes.  
  
"I don't _know_ what's gonna happen, but I've been in this business all my life, Sam. And after all these years, there's one thing you can be sure of when you're dealing with the supernatural."  
  
Sam finally looked over at Bobby again, letting the feather drift out of his fingers and back to the scarred wood. "What's that?"  
  
"It'll fuck you up. C'mere." Bobby pushed himself away from the bookshelf, holding a smallish, thickish book in his hands. It looked moldy, or maybe scorched. Black along the edges, with splintery wood showing at the spine where the vellum binding had been rubbed away. Sam settled himself on the edge of Bobby's table, shifting a video card and a dusty hard drive out of the way. Bobby eased the book open, letting it go flat on the table top. The pages inside were stained with the years – chipped and crumbled at the corners. The text itself looked as if it had been copied over in newer ink, careful strokes that followed older, fainter markings.  
  
"What's that?"  
  
"It's a book," Bobby said, shooting Sam an exasperated look and Sam stifled the urge to roll his eyes. "It's some very old charms for protection from possession."  
  
Sam blinked. "You think I'm going to be _possessed_? What kind of angel are you calling, Bobby?"  
  
"I'm calling the kind that _ain't human_. I don't care if they're the good guys or not – they're not us, and they don't think like us. They can't be trusted, Sam."  
  
"He's right, little brother," Dean said from the door, startling them both.  
  
"Damnit, boy –"  
  
"The livestock's fine, Ma," Dean said, grinning. He lifted a green-brown clay jug to shoulder height and shook it. "Magic and the Recipe go together?"  
  
"They're practically the same thing," Bobby muttered, but he was smiling a little, under his beard. "Now, Dean. You and I both know you get twitchy as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs whenever there's magic going on."  
  
Dean shrugged and sauntered over to the recliner, snagging three jelly glasses from the top of a bookshelf on his way. He flopped down into the chair, dropping the glasses to the floor by his feet, and started picking at the wax seal around the corked mouth of the jug. "Magic makes my skin crawl. Makes my _brain_ hurt."  
  
"Sometimes, I don't think you _got_ a brain." Bobby glanced up at Sam. "Go get that feather you were playing with. And _you_." Bobby leveled a callused, ink-stained finger at Dean. "Just sit there and be quiet or I swear I'll take a stick to you."  
  
"Sir, yessir," Dean muttered, digging his fingers into the cork and prying at it. "What the hell, Bobby? You thinkin' this is gonna need to survive reentry or something?"  
  
"Hush up, you." Bobby was rooting around in a drawer while Sam walked over to the fireplace and retrieved the blue jay feather.  
  
Sam couldn't help feeling a little...weirded out. A little nervous. "Is Dean gonna get a charm, too?" It popped out before he'd really thought about it and he cringed a little. He sounded six years old, asking if Dean was gonna get a shot, too – a trip to the dentist, a haircut, grounded. Dean shot him a sideways look, digging the blade of a pocket knife down between cork and jug lip and Sam covered his embarrassment by marching back over to Bobby and holding out the feather.  
  
Bobby snatched it from Sam's hand. "No angel in his right mind would want inside _that_ head," he said, snorting, and Dean grinned.  
  
"It'd never get back into heaven, that's for sure." Then he lifted his head just a fraction, looking up at Sam through his eyelashes, lip caught between his teeth for a moment.  
  
 _*Oh, fuck. Did that on purpose, you bastard,*_ Sam thought, looking hastily away before the heat in Dean's gaze did anything more than make him blush. "Uh, yeah, but – really – is he?"  
  
Bobby pulled a cloudy-looking bottle of ink from the drawer, holding it up to the light and squinting. He shook the bottle and looked up at Sam – over at Dean – and sighed. "Yeah, sure, if it'll make you feel better."  
  
"Ah, hell," Dean muttered. He stuck a bleeding thumb into his mouth, glaring at Sam. Cork from the jug held loosely in his fingers with the knife. "I hate that shit, Sam."  
  
"It's just...a spell. You trust Bobby, right?"  
  
Dean looked over at Bobby who studiously ignored him, shaving delicately at the quill of the feather. "Not since that whole...cat...thing."  
  
"Cat thing? What cat thing?" Sam looked back and forth between Dean and Bobby. Dean looked a little flushed, examining his nicked thumb. Bobby seemed to be wheezing a little.  
  
"It was, uh...pretty fucked up."  
  
"You only _thought_ you were a cat."  
  
Dean glared down at the jug of Recipe. "My mouth tasted like mouse for a week."  
  
"Be happy it didn't taste like _ass_."  
  
"No thanks to _you_."  
  
"I told you a hundred times, don't talk to the books." Bobby looked up from the feather, his face set in stern lines. Lines that were quivering from the strain of holding them.  
  
Dean made a disgusted noise and swam up out of the recliner, clashing the jelly glasses together as he snatched them up and stalking over to Bobby and Sam. "If you're gonna infect me with that shit, I need a drink first."  
  
"We all do." Bobby looked up at Sam, little grin twisting his mouth. "Sam?"  
  
"I'm good, I'm good," Sam said faintly, arm wrapped around his belly. It hurt to hold the laughter in. He watched Dean sloppily pour the glasses nearly full of Recipe, sharp apple-sour smell rolling up fragrant and rich from the jug. Sam took the slippery-wet glass from Dean's fingers and held it up. Bobby did the same, clinking the lip of his glass against Sam's and then tilting it toward his mouth.  
  
"Here's to having a rodent-free house."  
  
"Oh _God_." Sam couldn't hold it in anymore, huffing Recipe out of his mouth in a fine spray, half on the floor and half on Dean, who blinked at him with all the offended dignity of...a cat.  
  
"Laugh it up, Sasquatch," Dean snarled. Sam had to go into the bathroom and all but drown himself in the sink to get his control back. Bobby just wheezed into his beard.  
  
  
  
"This isn't gonna stay on," Sam said. He was sitting off to the side of the fireplace, his back against the warm surround, his legs flat to the floor, sprawled wide. Holding his hands out, palm-up, staring down at the angular runes that Bobby had inked there. The covered both palms and wound around his wrists. Another rested over his heart and a third on his belly. That one had tickled.  
  
"It don't matter if it stays on," Bobby said, not looking up from his work. He'd had Dean pick his own feather, and was currently using a ratty crow quill to draw the final design around Dean's navel. Dean looked intensely unhappy, reclining back on the table so Bobby could reach him, his elbows stuck in drifts of print-out and colored wires, his shirts rucked up around his armpits. "It's the intent that counts. Your soul remembers, even if your skin don't."  
  
"You drew on my _soul_?" Sam squinted up at Bobby, who rolled his eyes.  
  
"S'a fuckin' lightweight, Bobby," Dean said. He balanced on one elbow and lifted his second glass of scrumpy to his lips. "A black mark on the Winchester...honor."  
  
"I'm not drunk." Sam picked up his own glass and studied the clouded, honey-colored liquid inside. "This's really good, though." Sam drained the couple inches that were left in the glass – second glass – and carefully set it back down on the smooth tiles of the hearth. He folded his legs up under him and pushed, surprised when he had to grab the mantel to keep from folding right back down onto his ass.  
  
"Yes you are," Dean said, chuckling, and Bobby jabbed a ragged pinky nail into his ribs.  
  
"Sit still. M'almost done."  
  
" _You're_ drunk...both of you are...drunk." Sam swayed away from the fireplace, heading for the recliner. He ended up against a bookshelf and stared at it, puzzled. "This's not s'posed to be here."  
  
"Okay –done. Jesus. Get your brother to bed, Dean."  
  
"Yeah, Dean." Sam swung around on one heel – swung too far and ended up facing the bookshelf again. "Get me to _bed_." He glanced over at Dean, wondering if he'd get a repeat of that look from earlier.  
  
"Fuck. I told you, Bobby." Dean was rubbing his knuckles over his forehead, eyes squinting shut. "Told you fuckin' magic made my brain hurt."  
  
"That's the Recipe talkin'. Go on, both of you. Sun up's at seven...twenty-four, I expect you boys up by six."  
  
"Why we gotta get up so early?" Sam asked the books – jerked in startlement at Dean's hand coming down on his shoulder.  
  
"Eggs won't get collected on their own."  
  
"I don't like...chickens," Sam muttered, turning under the pressure of Dean's hand and staring over at Bobby, who was levering himself carefully upright, his crutches wedged under his arms. Bobby lifted his own glass – he'd only had one – and drained the last of his scrumpy.  
  
"I'll p'tect you from the chickens, Sammy," Dean said, and Sam smiled down at his brother.  
  
"You always did. Always p'tected me from...everythin'. From...bad kids and...bad people and bad...things..."  
  
"Good night, boys," Bobby said, but Sam didn't notice him swinging out of the room – thumping up the stairs. Didn't notice anything but Dean's hands on his shoulders, warm and heavy. Dean's face, flushed from the alcohol and the warmth of the room. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide under half-closed lids. His mouth was wet and Sam dipped down, wanting to taste it.  
  
"Sam –"  
  
"You'd let...you'd get hurt so I wouldn't, Dean. You'd...take the hard...jobs and do the...bad stuff and...you just...just...took care of me."  
  
"Course I did. C'mon, Sam, we gotta get up early."  
  
"Angel day tomorrow," Sam mumbled, letting Dean tug him into motion – guide him along the hall and up the stairs. Dean tripped a couple of times, his shoulder under Sam's arm and Sam wrapped his other arm around Dean's ribs, holding him close. "D'you really think an angel would...possess s'body?"  
  
"I dunno. They're bastards. Can't trust any of 'em. Just trust...trust..."  
  
"Trust you, Dean. Always trust you. Won't let me get eaten by an angel." They swayed to a stop at the top of the attic stairs, Dean's bed lit by the antique gold light of lantern turned low, night wick barely burning. Sam-dog laid there, his eyes glittering in the dimness, black puddle on the pale quilts. Dean put his hand on Sam's chest and Sam leaned into him, his head coming down somewhere on Dean's shoulder, his lips pressed to the warm skin of Dean's throat. "You won't let it, right? Right, Dean?"  
  
Dean rubbed his cheek against Sam's temple – dropped a kiss into his hair and Sam smiled against his neck. "I won't let any angels eat you, Sammy. Promise."  
  
"Love you, Dean," Sam whispered. "Always...did, always...do, every time, all of...them, all of...you. Deans. Love you all."  
  
"Okay, Sam. Okay. Me...me, too," Dean murmured back, and Sam shivered all over, hugging Dean hard.  
  
"Okay."

 

 

 _*Oh, God. I'm dying. This is what dying feels like...fuck, fuck, fuck...*_ Sam curled himself down over the toilet bowl and heaved, his stomach knotting and his throat burning. Nothing but bile came up, foul strands of it stringing away from his lips and he spat and spat again, trying to clear the taste out. "Ooh, God..."  
  
"C'mon, Sammy – it's not _that_ bad."  
  
"It's pretty bad." Sam pushed himself away from the toilet and back into Dean's legs.  
  
Dean untwisted his hand from Sam's hair and patted him on the shoulder. "You're not even pukin' up blood, dude. Or fish or anything – you'll be fine."  
  
" _Fish_? What the - _God_." Sam jerked back over the bowl, mouth flooding with saliva, but he only dry-heaved, coughing. Dean shifted on the tub edge, his boot-heel knocking into it and making it sound faintly, hollow and dull like a badly-turned bell.  
  
"I've seen some fucked up shit," Dean said, his hands in Sam's hair again – fingertips warm against the nape of Sam's neck. "I mean – there's a _reason_ I stay the hell out of Florida."  
  
Sam spat a couple more times and then reached up and pawed at the handle on the tank, flushing. The cloudy water swirled away and Sam closed the lid – slumped down across it, his cheek pillowed on his bicep and his legs bent, tucked up under himself. "Yeah, Florida sucks."  
  
"Sure it does." Dean's voice was low and soothing – his thumb was rubbing over and over the ridge of Sam's spine, right where the collar of his thermal ended. It felt good.  
  
"I hate the Recipe," Sam said.  
  
"Sure you do."  
  
"I hate Bobby, too. Fucker." Sam knew his voice was creeping toward petulant, but he didn't care.  
  
"Sure, Bobby's a fucker."  
  
Sam twisted around a little, glaring at Dean. "Dude, I'm not _five_."  
  
"Oh, no, you're a big boy, Sammy," Dean leered, and Sam huffed and let his head drop back down.  
  
"You're such a freak. You don't even have a _headache_."  
  
"That's 'cause I'm a _real_ man, little brother."  
  
Sam hid the mile-wide grin those words caused in the crook of his elbow – listened to the _click-click_ of claws on wood and then linoleum. Sudden weight on his thigh as Sam-dog put his paws there, his nose snuffling under Sam's arm and then into his neck, cold and damp. "Ah, Jesus –" Sam flinched away and Dean laughed softly.  
  
"He's just makin' sure you're still breathing."  
  
"He have a lot of practice with that?" Sam asked, pushing himself upright and dislodging the dog.  
  
"Not so much any more."  
  
Sam hooked an arm over Dean's leg and then hung there a moment, just breathing. He got his legs situated and levered himself upright, Dean's hand in the middle of his back to keep him from tipping over backward. Sam-dog made a little, whining bark – clearly a question – and Sam reached out and blindly patted at the smooth, silken head. "I'm good, Sammy. I'm all right." Sam-dog whuffed at him again and then trotted out of the bathroom, tail waving. Sam staggered to the sink and cranked the cold water on, blinking at himself in the mirror. "I look like a zombie."  
  
"Yeah. But a _fresh_ one. Not, like – one that's been shuffling around for a few weeks."  
  
"Great, that's great." Sam bent carefully and shoved his head under the stream of water – yelped in shock. It was as cold as it could possibly be and not be frozen and it was like getting an ice-pick straight to the brain. " _Jesus – fucking – C-Christ_!" Water ran into his mouth and he sucked and swished and spat – finally turned his head and drank a little and then just hung there, his hair dripping and his forehead aching from the cold.  
  
"That should do it." Dean shut the water off – dropped a towel over Sam's head and rubbed at his hair. That felt good, too. "Bobby's got his patent hangover cure all mixed up and ready to go."  
  
"Huh?" Sam braced shaky arms on the rim of the sink and pushed himself upright, the towel falling down around his shoulders. "Did you take it?"  
  
"You nuts?" Dean grinned at him in the mirror – triumphantly held up Sam's toothbrush and toothpaste. "I'd rather eat a live rat. C'mon – scrub those pearly whites and get your ass downstairs, there's breakfast cooking."  
  
"How can you even think about food?" Sam squeezed some paste onto his brush and stuck the brush into his mouth – capped the tube clumsily, getting the lid cross-threaded and huffing in frustration.  
  
"I'm not a lightweight like you. I can have me a big ole' plate of corned beef hash and gravy and eggs over easy –"  
  
" _Deean_ , shut up, for fuck's sake!"  
  
" _Dean!_ Bobby's voice bellowed from downstairs. " _Get your ass in gear, boy! Stop tormenting your brother and come down here and feed your damn dog, he's drivin' me nuts!_ "  
  
"On my way!" Dean yelled back, and Sam winced. "Buck up, kiddo. Got a busy day ahead of us." Dean sauntered out, grinning, and Sam threw the toothpaste down in disgust and started brushing his teeth, glaring at himself in the mirror.  
  
He didn't actually look that bad, though. He really _had_ looked like some kind of living dead boy the week before at Popeye's ranch, but the food and the exercise – the _living_ he'd done, since then... Except for the tinge of hangover-green, he looked almost his old self.  
  
Almost. Sam spit toothpaste and rinsed his mouth and the brush – wiped his face on the towel that still hung around his neck and regarded himself in the mirror. Even though he'd started growing his hair longer than Dad wanted when he was fifteen, he'd never had it _this_ long. It curled down under his collar and almost brushed his shoulders – stuck wetly to his jaw and his throat. He scraped it back with his hands and held it, knotted in his fingers, at the back of his head. Different. _New_ , and that felt...right. After the endless, static sameness of his time with the angel...it seemed right. He wasn't that boy anymore, anyway. Wasn't that Sam Winchester. He tipped his chin up and examined the mottled bruise he could just see, staining the edge of his collar bone. Bruise from Dean's mouth – from the long and mostly sleepless night back at the Roach Motel. Well – not _everything_ was different. Dean was still a possessive bastard, utterly incapable of _not_ leaving some mark behind.  
  
And that felt better than good.  
  
  
Sam declined breakfast. At least – Bobby's breakfast. He opened a can of mandarin oranges instead and ate them standing up by the kitchen sink, gaze trained on the yard and the sky beyond, mostly to avoid the disgusting spectacle of Dean sopping up runny egg yolk and chewing with his mouth open. The air was clear, the sky a vault of oceanic blue, not even one wisp of cloud to mar the high, perfect arch of it. The wind was still blowing, humming through the packed steel of the wards and occasionally an eddy of snow would curl down from the roof, dancing like thrown confetti.  
  
Over the wind – or maybe under it – Sam could hear the purr of the fire in the stove and the sound of the dog pack eating on the porch; rattle of tin dishes and the occasional snarling bark. A moment of peace that seemed to stretch out long and easy, until Bobby set his coffee cup down with a little click and pushed back from the table.  
  
"So, you ready to see your angel?"  
  
"Maybe?" Sam swallowed the last bits of orange – tipped the can up and drained the juice. Stalling a little, because he didn't really want to talk about it. Which wasn't exactly normal, as Dean...could tell you.  
  
"No 'maybe' about it. It's comin' today, so you need to get your head straight." Bobby looked back and forth between the two of them, his mouth set in a tight line.  
  
"I'm – my head's good. I just..." Sam put the can in the sink with his fork and then leaned there, hands shoved down into his pockets. "I don't want to go....back with it. I don't want to leave."  
  
"Nothing says you have to."  
  
"It's an _angel_ , Bobby! I can't exactly fight it."  
  
Dean snorted, shoving his last forkful of hash into his mouth. He stood up, chewing, plate and cup in his hands and roughly jostled Sam putting them down into the sink – running water over them. "You think Bobby'd call anything here that he didn't have _some_ kind of defense against?"  
  
"Dean's right. It can come inside the wards, but it can't come into this house."  
  
"It can't? How'd you –"  
  
"Hush!" Bobby said, and they all froze. The pack had stopped eating – or had just gone silent – and a moment later Sam realized that the wind had fallen off. Even the popping hum of the fire seemed muffled and faint, and Bobby was pushing himself to his feet, clumsy in his haste. "Shit. Sooner than I thought. Let's go, boys."  
  
"Wait a minute, wait –"  
  
"You don't keep 'em waiting, you fool," Bobby snapped, and Dean gave Sam a little shove toward the door.  
  
"Yeah, but –"  
  
"Be right behind you, Sam. We're not letting you go out there alone." Dean stared at him, eyebrows raised.  
  
"Fuck, okay, okay."  
  
"Move it." Bobby swung himself down the hall – stood with his crutches against the wall, struggling into his coat. Dean snatched Sam's coat down and tossed it at him – shrugged his own leather on, checking an inside pocket and showing Sam the familiar butt of the Colt. A moment later they were all stepping out onto the front porch.  
  
The sun seemed even brighter than before – bouncing off the wind-packed snow like daggers, stabbing straight into Sam's brain. He squinted hard, eyes watering – stepped carefully down off the porch and into the yard. The utter stillness and silence was oppressive – eerie – and Sam stopped dead when he realized he was alone. He turned to look back at Dean and Bobby, who had one crutch held out, preventing Dean from easily getting around him.  
  
"Bobby?"  
  
"I called it, Sam, but you're the one that's gonna have to talk to it. You made the deal."  
  
Dean's fingers were on the aluminum of the crutch, not quite shoving. "The deal's done, Bobby – it left him here –"  
  
"We don't know that, Dean." Bobby hadn't looked away from Sam – hadn't moved – and Sam hesitated for a long moment.  
  
"It's okay, Dean."  
  
"No, it's _not_ ," Dean snapped, but he didn't move, either, except to slide his hand into his coat.  
  
"Okay, no. But...he's right. I made the deal, I have to be the one to ask. You've...you've got my back, right?"  
  
"Damn straight."  
  
"That's all I needed," Sam said. And then something... A sound, on the very edge of hearing. Distant and trembling and Sam turned – looked around and then up. Something in the sky, very far and pale – a mote of light. A feather, drifting down. Sam felt himself move into a stance – feet planted solidly apart, hands loose and ready at his sides. Instinct for _fight_ , because flight wasn't an option. The mote fell slowly closer – grew brighter.  
  
Grew _louder_ , a rushing, rustling noise that tore the muffled silence to shreds. _*Eight miles high and falling fast...*_ Sam thought, watching it. Blinking and then squinting as the mote expanded to a point of fiery light – to a candle, a spotlight, a _sun_.  
  
A roaring howl like every wind had been let loose from every quarter. Light that burned his eyes and then his brain, his nerves and Sam felt dimly that he'd fallen to his knees – that he was screaming, but he couldn't hear himself. Couldn't see the snow or the ward-wall or the sky, just...  
  
Light, moving, rushing – a hundred-thousand dove's wings, their tips dipped in ice, in silver, in fire, in blood and in ash. A thousand-thousand eyes that could see every molecule of his body – ten-hundred mouths that were whispering, screaming, _shrieking_ his name. Blast-furnace heat that boiled the air – pressure of planets and galaxies and his bones were creaking – shattering – his blood was bubbling away, his skin split and shriveling and he was _dead, nothing, please, please, **stop**..._.  
  
  
  
Sam lifted his head, panting. The snow was gone from within the wards, and the grass. The mud that was left was steaming, furrowed like a plowed field and rapidly freezing. Something wet on his face and Sam raised a shaking hand – wiped his cheek and then stared dumbly at the streak of blood on his palm. From mouth or eyes or nose, he couldn't tell. He could hear the pings and creaks of the crushed steel wall as it cooled – settled. Could hear Bobby cursing and then there was a hand on his shoulder – fingers on his temples, Dean's thumbs on his cheeks, wiping under his eyes.  
  
 _*Fell and it hurt and I wasn't gonna cry but I did, Dean says m'not a crybaby...*_ Sam blinked and put his own hands up – gripped the scarred leather of Dean's coat. Dean had a smear of blood under his nose – a burst capillary in his left eye and his lips were moving, he was –  
  
"...okay? Sam?"  
  
"Y-yeah...yeah, I'm...good."  
  
"C'mon –" Dean's hands slipped down to Sam's shoulders – knotted in the canvas of Sam's coat and hauled. Sam pushed, legs wobbly, but once he was up he was good, leaning into Dean's hold and taking longer, deeper breaths. Dizziness receding as his breathing evened out. "You good? Sammy?"  
  
"I'm good. Stay here, Dean, okay?"  
  
"Not goin' anywhere." Dean gave him a tiny shake – let go of Sam's coat and smoothed the wrinkles out. Then he stepped back – turned around and planted himself next to Sam, shoulder to shoulder.  
  
It shot a jolt of pure energy through Sam – pure strength – and he finally let himself focus on the figure that stood about twenty feet away. The angel, in all its ragged glory. Torn jeans and worn leather jacket, broken boots. Fall of hair like a starling's wing, and its eyes... Sam flinched from them, frowning, and the angel smiled. Let something go, or maybe pulled it in and then its eyes were simply dark.  
  
"Sam." Its voice was silken – sighing – high tones and low that sung through Sam's bones and made his ears ring a little. Dean muttered a cursed under his breath and Sam wanted to laugh, but the angel's limpid gaze held him entranced.  
  
"I...Raziel..." Sam's voice was like sandpaper in his throat and he stopped – swallowed. Tried again. "I wanted to...I need to ask you a question."  
  
"Of course." The angel slid forward a step or two and Sam – stepped back. He'd been away from it for only seven days but he could _feel_ it. Feel the angel – the leashed intensity of it. Feel _it_ : unliving, undying...immense. Crammed down into the form of a slight, dark-eyed androgyne. It was like standing under a pylon, bone-deep hum of power that rang through Sam's body and put his teeth on edge. Beside him Dean all but growled, pushing his shoulder into Sam's.  
  
"Why did I stop? Why – this place? Why this..."  
  
"This Dean?" Dean jumped at the sound of his name coming out of the angel's mouth – little flinch that Sam leaned into, steadying him.  
  
"Why any of this? I thought... I had a debt to pay."  
  
"You did. You do. But we decide how it's paid." Raziel slipped forward again and Sam braced himself against all instinct and stood still. Dean did as well, shivering, and the angel advanced like a tide, steady and overwhelming. "If we decide that it's best that you stand here, than stand you shall."  
  
"What – am I supposed to do? There's things here...things no one can fight. I can't help, here. I can't do – anything here."  
  
"Can't you, Samuel? It's in your blood, after all." Raziel lifted one narrow, long-fingered hand and Sam wanted to duck away, remembering that touch from before. Electric jolt – fiery ice. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Dean's hand go up, reaching to intervene and Sam raised his own, coming between them. Stopping Dean's reach, his gaze on the angel.  
  
 _*In my blood...tainted blood...nothing good...*_ "Tell me what I can do. Tell me how to – to fight those things. Those demons. Tell me why you _don't_."  
  
"Not tainted, Sam," the angel said, and finished its motion – touched its fingertips to Sam's forehead. Sam felt them, three distinct points of _heatcoldsharp_. " _Da et atzmecha_ ," the angel whispered and Sam...did.  
  
It unfolded in him like wings. Like the petals of a flower – like a bullet, crazing apart as it spiraled through his flesh. Knowledge expanding with the force of a nova, whiting out sight, feeling, thought. _Power_ was there, unimaginable. The earth under his feet layered like a book, each page one hundred years of history – of life. The magic of the ward was a tangible thing, pulsing against his skin. _Dean_ was, tight-coiled pillar of heat and light and _bloodsmokesteel_. A holy blade, sheathed in flesh and Sam knew he could wield him. Knew he could lift his hand and harrow the earth to its core.  
  
" _No_! No, no, no –" Sam wrenched away – broke the connection and found himself on his knees again, Dean beside him in the mud. Dean's arm around his shoulders, his palm flat to Sam's chest, right over the insane knocking of his heart. The power snapped off like a light, almost painful, and Sam dragged the back of his hand across his mouth. _*In my blood.*_ "I won't...use that. I won't. What he did –"  
  
"Sam." The angel's hand cupped his chin – lifted it – and this time the touch was like a sunbeam. Like the gentlest of spring airs, kissing. "What are demons but fallen angels? Divinity is not a cloak, to be put off at will." The angel's eyes were shifting – sliding. Silver-storm-grey breaking and curling across the fragile blue. "You only touch the Eternal that exists in all mankind."  
  
"Get away from him, right now." Sam jerked out of the angel's touch and saw that Dean had the Colt out and up, trained on the angel. The narrow barrel wavered, Dean's whole arm shaking – his face pale and his eyes wide and shocked and dark. "If the demons are just...fucked up angels and this kills them...it'll kill you, too." Dean's voice was thick with something – blood, fear, anger – and Sam swayed under his arm, panic sending a fresh burst of adrenalin through him. Heart beating too hard, lungs huffing air in and out too fast to get half as much oxygen as he needed.  
  
"D-Dean –"  
  
"Get _away_ from him. You can't have him."  
  
"Peace, beloved..." The angel's hand moved too fast for them to see – to stop – and its fingers brushed Dean's cheek, light and quick. Dean blinked, gasping and then his arm wavered aside. Fell, as if the Colt were suddenly too heavy and Dean just knelt there, looking bewildered and God...so young.  
  
Sam curled his fingers into Dean's shirts, holding on. Anger pushing out panic – fighting the fear. "Leave him _alone_."  
  
"You were born with the power, Sam. You all are. Azazel only gave you the key to unlock it. Gave it without consent." Raziel crouched down, suddenly, level with them. "But you use it – or do not use it – with the full knowledge of what you are. _Who_ you are."  
  
"I'm not...them. One of them, I'm not –"  
  
"You are a child of man. And as such, you have all of heaven and hell within you. Every grace – every vice. All of it in the palm of your hand." The angel reached out and lifted Sam's hand away from Dean, turning it. Stroking its cool fingers over Sam's knuckles and Sam shivered. Dean's arm tightened around his shoulder and Sam pushed into the touch. "And _here_...here where the veils are so thin – you can use that power as it was meant to be used. You can close your fist and crush the earth...or you can open your hand and give."  
  
Sam looked up at the angel. At Raziel, who guarded the Tree of Life. Who, said the stories, stood atop Mount Sinai at every dawn, proclaiming to all mankind the fifteen-hundred keys to the mysteries of the world. And Sam could _feel_ them. He could hear them, somehow, a whispering all through his heart. So many secrets...so much power. "How – how do I...what if I –?"  
  
"Fall?" The angel lifted one long eyebrow – uncurled Sam's fist and laid his hand flat to Dean's chest. "You have your sword, warrior. Trust it."  
  
Sam could feel Dean's heart beating under his palm. Could feel the beats throb upward through his arm – pound through his body. Solid – certain – steady. _Bloodsmokesteel_ but also _love_ , and _courage_. "I do. I trust him."  
  
"Of course you do." Raziel stood, liquid unfolding, and stepped away. Seemed to shimmer, solid form wisping at the edges, becoming insubstantial between one breath and the next.  
  
"Wait! How come I can – why couldn't I do this before? Why _now_?"  
  
The angel smiled, sunlight on ice, shivering apart into a million, fluttering fragments. Receding and fading and flying away all at once. "Because you asked."

 

 

The silence, after, was almost painful. Air so dead and still it seemed like Sam couldn't drag it into his lungs – couldn't push out the stale air that was already there. And then he _could_ , whooping cough as everything rushed back with a tangible _snap_. He blinked down at his knees, inches deep in freezing mud; looked at his hand, which had curled reflexively into Dean's shirts. His knuckles were white, skin dry and cracked from the cold.  
  
The dogs were barking hysterically, the mules hee-hawing in the barn and Bobby was cursing, a steady and varied stream of profanity that made Sam feel the urge to giggle hysterically. Bobby maneuvered down the stairs and across the mud of the yard and Dean took a hard, sharp breath in, his arm and the Colt coming up to about half way and then wavering aside again.  
  
"Did it – where –?"  
  
"It's gone. It left." Sam let his head fall down onto Dean's shoulder, squeezing his eyes shut. He felt Dean pocket the Colt – felt his rough fingers stroke in under Sam's hair and up, tangling in it and pulling him close.  
  
"You okay? Did it – what'd it do? Bobby, you said he'd be protected!"  
  
"He's still alive, isn't he?" Bobby snapped. Sam heard Bobby's boot and the crutch-tips squelch in the mud and then a moment later felt Bobby's hand on his shoulder. "Sam, you alright?"  
  
"Sam?"  
  
Sam took a long breath, saturating his nose – his lungs – with Dean's scent. Leather and wood smoke, salt and soap. _Dean_. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm okay, I just..." Sam took one last, long breath and then lifted his head. Looked up at Bobby, squinting. "Is it always like that?"  
  
"Every fuckin' time," Bobby said. He tipped his head to one side, his gaze sharp. "Wasn't it like that when you called it?"  
  
"No, it was...there was...less. It was just...that..."  
  
"That 'innocent street person' shape?" Dean asked, and Sam gave a short, rusty laugh.  
  
"Yeah. Just...normal. Mostly normal."  
  
"My fuckin' legs are freezing," Dean muttered. He leaned into Sam and stood up – hauled Sam up beside him and then stood there, swaying just a little. Pale, with the faintest of marks – like a touch of sunburn – on his cheek where the angel had touched him. Rusty smear of dried blood under his nose and the startling bloom of blood in the white of his eye. "Fuck me."  
  
"It takes it out of you." Bobby started picking his way back across the yard, slithering a little in the mud. "You clean your boots off before you come in."  
  
"Yeah, yeah..." Sam ran his hands back through his hair – rubbed at his cheek, where the drying blood itched. He stood there for a moment with his face tipped up to the sun, his eyes closed. There was almost no heat to the light, and the wind had picked up again, gusting through the ward wall. It carried, for the first time, the scent of earth on it, and moisture. _*Spring. The equinox. Things coming back to life...*_  
  
Dean's hand touched his chest, tiny push. "You really okay?"  
  
"Yeah, I'm...good..." Sam let his chin drop – opened his eyes to find Dean studying him, his hands jammed down into his pockets.  
  
"It said something gave you a key. What'd it mean? 'Gave it without consent'."  
  
Sam sighed – rocked back onto his heels a little, feeling the mud squish under his feet. It was stiffening already, freezing into hard little ridges as they stood there. * _Can't keep it from him. Can't hide it anymore. Don't want to.*_ "When the demon...when Azazel killed our mom...he fed me some of his blood."  
  
"Huh." Dean stared at him for a long moment and then his gaze flickered over Sam's shoulder, his whole face relaxing. Almost smiling and Sam frowned.  
  
"A demon fed me blood when I was six months old, Dean. Doesn't that...mean anything?"  
  
"I dunno, does it?" Dean moved a step or two away, bending down a little and a moment later Sam-dog was leaping up at him, mouth open in a doggy grin, tongue out. Dancing on his hind legs and getting streaks of mud on Dean's sleeves and jacket-front. "Hey, Sammy, hey, boy..."  
  
"Of course it does!" Sam made an impatient gesture, opening his arms wide. "It means I'm... It means I'm not –"  
  
"It said 'not tainted', Sam. I heard it." Dean looked up from Sam-dog, squinting a little into the sun. "So whatever big bad....thing you think you are, you're _not_ , okay?" He slapped his hands together, straightening, and Sam-dog hopped over to Sam, sniffing excitedly at his muddy knees and fingers before darting away again, running across the yard toward the back of the house and the pack.  
  
"Except I _am_ , Dean."  
  
"Jesus." Dean wiped at the paw prints on his sleeve. "No, you're _not_. You made a deal with an angel, Sam. Doesn't make you special. Bobby calls 'em all the time!" Off Sam's look of complete disbelief, Dean sighed and looked skyward, making a point of giving in. "Okay, so he's called them four times. Still doesn't mean anything."  
  
"No, it's not...that." Sam pushed his fingers back through his hair and then linked his hands behind his neck for a moment before letting them fall to his sides. "What did it feel like, when the angel touched your cheek?"  
  
"Nothin'" Dean said, too fast, and Sam just _looked_ at him. "Dude, it was – it wasn't anything, it..." Dean stopped and sighed – reached up and scratched at the back of his neck, frowning. "It felt like...for just a minute like...everything was okay. You know? I could just...stop. I could rest and nothin' was gonna go to hell or blow up or...catch on fire. I knew everything was gonna be okay."  
  
Dean looked pissed off – actually _angry_ – and Sam felt himself frowning in confusion. "And what, that's a bad thing? I don't get you."  
  
"It's a fucking _lie_ , Sam! Nothing's gonna be fine, nothing's gonna be okay. The demons are still out there, the monsters are still out there and the angel already fucked back off to – to heaven or _wherever_." Dean blew a breath out, glaring at the ward wall – at the mud and the barn and everything but Sam. "And we're still stuck here, people dying every day and the cities falling apart and nothing's...ever gonna be like it was. I'm just sick of the lies, Sam." Dean's gaze, when he finally met Sam's, was flat and cold, antique-jade green and darkness, his eyes socketed in shadow. "Sick of it all."  
  
"No, Dean –" Sam reached for Dean's shoulder and Dean actually flinched away. Flinched and stood there, rigid. All but trembling and then abruptly he relaxed, his shoulders slumping down, his neck bending. Letting out a long breath, soft little laugh at the end.  
  
"Sorry. I'm sorry, man." Dean straightened up and rolled his head on his neck a little, making it crack. "Not your problem."  
  
" _What_?" Sam stomped a few feet away from Dean – stomped back and jabbed him in the chest with his finger. "Jesus, sometimes I just wanna fucking clock you, you know that? Not _my_ problem? It's been _my_ problem since I was six months old!"  
  
"Yeah, and it got you _killed_ , Sam! I got you killed. This whole fucked up world and fucked up _life_ and you didn't even make it to puberty 'cause of me and then this fucking... _angel_ wants to feed me some bullshit lie about how it's all better now? Fuck that! And fuck you. You had it easy, playing the fucking hero, never staying behind to clean up the mess. So don't _tell_ me it's your fucking problem."  
  
"Are you _nuts_? Dean? Do you really think – do you even fucking _know_ how many times I've seen you die? Seen _Dad_..." Sam's voice cracked on that – cracked and caught and he couldn't finish his sentence – couldn't breathe, for a moment. The hurt too sharp and too deep – too bright-hot, like a knife to his heart. _*God, Dad...I fucked up with you so bad, and I miss you so damn much...*_ Sam wiped at his eyes roughly, his knuckles scraping the thin skin underneath, smearing freezing wetness across his cheekbones. "What the hell is wrong with you?"  
  
"I heard what it said, Sam." Dean was breathing hard, sheet-white, the scar across his mouth standing out in contrast to his chapped lips. His own eyes glittering with tears but they didn't spill over, just pooled there, making his eyes huge. "I was listening through the fucking....roofie it gave me. It said you could – what – save the world? Save us all? That you've got some kind of power, now?"  
  
"So? So what? I'm not – it's not what –"  
  
"Yeah, so – save the fucking world and then off to your next...case, right? Or maybe – maybe you get to go...wherever they send heroes, huh? Off in – heaven or wherever, with M-Mom and...you –"  
  
"Dean – no. _No_. Damnit –" Sam ignored the rigidly hunched line of Dean's shoulders, ignored the glare and simply grabbed. Grabbed Dean and pulled him close and held on, face buried in Dean's neck and his arms squeezing tight, hip bumping hip and their ribs crushed together. Shaking, and he wasn't sure if it was rage or fear or what. "What makes you think I'm leaving? What makes you think I'd just...a-abandon you?"  
  
Dean didn't answer – didn't move for too long and then he did, his arms coming up and around. Holding tight, fierce clutch that made Sam wheeze a little. It _hurt_ , but love had always hurt, one way or another, and Sam didn't mind. "It's you that fixes everything. Isn't it?" Dean's voice was rough – ragged. Thick with emotion, vibrating against Sam's collarbone. "What it said, you fix the world. If the monsters are all gone...why would you stay?"  
  
Sam wrenched out of Dean's hold and stared at him. Fury, shock – one sick moment of pity before he took Dean's face in his hands and kissed him. Fuck Bobby seeing – fuck _Bobby_ , he didn't matter. None of it did – nothing did, except for Dean. Making him understand – making him _feel_. Sam could taste iron in Dean's mouth – blood and maybe tears, coffee and salt. The rub of Dean's tongue over his own sent a quick, tingling shock of arousal straight to his cock and he had to break the kiss. Press forehead to forehead for a moment, dragging air into his lungs, the back of Dean's neck warm and fragile under his hand. "Fucker, you fuck, you _idiot_. God damnit, Dean, I love you. Don't you get it yet? I fucking love you."  
  
"Doesn't mean you'll stay," Dean said, and there was a lifetime's worth of heartbreak in his voice.  
  
"I'm not Dad. And I'm not six. I can fight – God, you have no fucking idea what I can do." Sam pulled back far enough so they could see each other – so Dean could _see_. "I can't do this alone, Dean."  
  
Dean stared back at him, solemn. Fingers twisted in Sam's jacket, holding on. "Yes you can."  
  
"I –" Memory came, clear as ice, and Sam had to grin. "Yeah, but I don't want to."  
  
  
  
Dean went upstairs to wash off the rest of Bobby's spell before, as he said, his head exploded. Sam went into the kitchen, his throat dry. He washed his hands and then poured himself some Tang and gulped it down. Bobby was sitting at the table, cup of coffee on the scratched wooden surface in front of him, his hat tugged low over his eyes.  
  
He'd seen – Sam knew he had. He didn't care.  
  
"He doesn't trust me," Sam said, staring out the kitchen window. Watching the dog pack trot in circuits through yard, reaffirming that everything was theirs – was safe. "He thinks I'll leave – thinks I don't...care."  
  
"And what, that's supposed to come as a shock?"  
  
Sam turned around sharply, angry. "I'm his _brother_ , Bobby –"  
  
"No you're not." Bobby held up his hand, forestalling Sam's reply. "You've been here, what – seven days? He barely knows you. He _believes_ you, don't think he don't." Bobby turned his cup in his hands, tapping a thick fingernail against the pottery. "He knows you're telling him the truth, but he don't feel you in his bones."  
  
"I'm not going to abandon him."  
  
Bobby lifted his head, skewering Sam with a look of squint-eyed intensity. "Every single person he's ever give fuck-all about has died on him, boy. Died right in front of him, and him helpless to stop it, every damn time. That demon got in his Dad...he didn't know it right at first. They were down in Texas and John was drinkin' and then he comes back to the hotel and starts tellin' Dean..." Bobby stopped and reached inside his down vest – pulled out a flask out and poured a slug of whiskey into his coffee. "That demon told Dean every single secret John ever had. Every ugly thought and fucked-up memory – every desperate impulse the man ever fought. Dean thought it was _John_ telling him that, you hear me?"  
  
Bobby took a long swallow of his coffee and Sam nodded, arms crossed tightly over his chest, gaze fixed on the older man.  
  
"Tellin' him the wrong son died – tellin' him they'd have been better off if it'd been Dean dyin' in that hospital bed 'stead of you. Tellin' him how much he hated life, hated the world, hated his _son_... And there's Dean, takin' it all in like he always did and believin' every filthy fucking lie..."  
  
"It maybe wasn't all lies, though, was it?" Sam asked quietly, and Bobby sighed, his shoulders slumping.  
  
"We aren't none of us pure in our heart of hearts. We all have unreasonable ideas and stupid grudges... Some of it might have been true, but John knew better than to ever let any of it out. Dean figured out it wasn't his Dad about an hour in but..." Bobby lifted his hands, and Sam nodded slowly.  
  
"Damage done, I guess."  
  
"Yeah, pretty much. Kid was only fifteen – what d'ya expect?"  
  
Sam let his arms fall – walked the few steps necessary to take him to Bobby's side. "I'm not...he gave up so much for me. He always has. I'd give my life for him, Bobby."  
  
Bobby looked up sharply, scowling. "That's the last fuckin' thing he needs, boy. You _keep_ your life. Keep tight hold of it and _live_ it. That's the only thing that's ever gonna make a fucking difference to him. You don't give him promises – you _live_ 'em. You hear me?"  
  
Sam stared down at the man – at the web of wrinkles around the weary eyes – at the scarred knuckles and the callused hands. At the love that shone, pure and clear as a candle-flame. "Yeah, I hear you."  
  
Bobby stared back for a long moment and then _huh_ 'd in acknowledgment, lifting his cup and taking another mouthful of his doctored coffee. "Go on upstairs and get clean, then. You're droppin' mud everywhere."  
  
"Yessir,"  
  
"And don't be runnin' all the hot water out, it's a pure waste."  
  
"Yessir," Sam said again, grinning now, backing across the kitchen.  
  
"And don't be 'yessir'ing me like some kind'a smart aleck!" Bobby roared, and Sam turned and ran for the stairs.  
  
"Sir, yessir!"  
  
Dean was still in the shower, and Sam figured sharing was the best way to ration the heat.

 

 

 

 _The stars are rolling in the sky,  
The earth rolls on below,  
And we can feel the rattling wheel  
Revolving as we go.  
Then tread away, my gallant boys,  
And make the axle fly;  
Why should not wheels go round about,  
Like planets in the sky?_  
  
  
  
  
  
They stayed at Bobby's for two more days, but Dean was restless and irritated, and Sam, himself, felt as if he had somewhere he needed to be. Bobby mostly yelled at them when he wasn't interrogating Sam about the angel, and when Lisa and her kids came back the evening of the twenty-second, that was that.  
  
They left, as seemed Dean's habit, right before dawn, heading out into the still, clear twilight. The sky was clean of clouds, indigo fading to turquoise fading to a pale, spring green all along the horizon, and they drove out of Bobby's gate warm with cinnamon pancakes and strong coffee. Bobby had even offered up a jug of the Recipe to 'see in the new year', and Sam wondered how long it would be until they came through there again.  
  
They drove east, and the sun lifted itself above the horizon in a wash of tangerine and saffron and clear honey-gold. Sam-dog put his chin on the seatback and sighed, and Sam felt as if he'd dropped something, back there at Bobby's. As if a heavy, suffocating cloak had slid away and left him light and clean and easy.  
  
"It was the wards," he said, an hour into their drive, and Dean's fingers jerked slightly on the wheel.  
  
"What?"  
  
"The wards. At Bobby's house. I didn't realize it when we were there but they were kind of..."  
  
"Kind of _what_?" Dean looked a little...tense. Sam-dog, who'd lain down in the back seat, sat up, making that little question sound down in his throat.  
  
"Kind of...suffocating?" Sam was aware that that wasn't a very good answer but it came as close as possible to what it had felt like, driving away from Bobby's house.  
  
"Are you asking me or telling me?"  
  
"Uh..."  
  
"Jesus, Sam. Are you gonna go all..." Dean waved his hand. "All darkside on me?"  
  
" _What_? No! I'm just...it was like..." Sam twisted around in his seat, tucking one leg up under him a little and facing Dean. "It's like, now I'm not _in_ the ward I can feel...more."  
  
"Feel more _what_?"  
  
"More like smacking you up-side the head? Jesus. The angel...did something. To me." Dean shot him a look that said ' _yes, you idiot, we talked about this at Bobby's for two days_ ' and Sam sighed. "It flipped a switch. Whatever it is that makes Ava and Jake and all the...scanners what they are? It's about...a thousand times _more_."  
  
"A thousand?"  
  
"Maybe a million," Sam said, biting at a cuticle and Dean hit the brakes. Sam stiff-armed himself off the dash and sent Dean a poisonous look. "What the hell, Dean!"  
  
"Shut up. A _million_?" Dean's hands were white-knuckled on the steering wheel and he glared at Sam, jaw tense and working. Sam-dog growled, making the hairs on the back of Sam's neck lift. "You're sitting there telling me that whatever the hell it is in you is a _million_ times stronger than what Ava can do."  
  
"It...feels like it. I can...there's..." Sam stopped, running his fingers through his hair. He'd told Dean and Bobby that the angel had said he could fight – win, maybe. That the angel had said he was...special. He hadn't said that the angel's touch – his 'know thyself' – had opened up another world entirely. Had shown Sam every single atom and particle and fucking...tachyon, for fuck's sake; shown him the key to unlocking it all, to taking the world apart a molecule at a time, if he wanted to. He was pretty sure that if he'd confessed that to Bobby, well.... Bobby would have shot him dead.  
  
Sam didn't really blame him.  
  
"Look... _yes_ , okay? Yes, but...I'm not...I can control it, okay? I won't..." Sam gestured helplessly. "I won't _do_ anything."  
  
Dean stared at him for a long, long minute and then, like a switch flipped in _Dean_ , he started to grin. "Like hell you won't, little brother. Like hell you won't. Stifle it, Sammy."  
  
Sam-dog whuffed softly and settled again, and Dean took his foot off the brake and eased back up to speed. His grin – which Sam thought looked slightly manic – didn't fade. "Where're we going?"  
  
"City of the big shoulders, that's where we're going."  
  
"Huh?"  
  
" _Chicago_ , Sam. Jeez. I thought you were some kind of book nerd, back at...wherever."  
  
Sam huffed, a little offended. "I know what 'city of the big shoulders' means, Dean. It's a poem. I just didn't..." Sam twisted around again, facing front, picking at a worn spot on the canvas coat he'd taken from Bobby. "I don't think...the other Dean ever read that poem."  
  
"Boredom does terrible things to a man," Dean said softly, and his grin faded. After a moment he reached over and patted Sam's hand, a fleeting touch. "I know you...wish –"  
  
"No, Dean." Sam looked over at Dean, frowning. Doubled up his fist and punched Dean's shoulder as hard as he could, making Dean flinch and the car swerve. "No, you asshole, I _don't_ wish."  
  
"Fine, Jesus," Dean muttered, rubbing his shoulder. But he was smiling again, and that was all Sam really wanted.  
  
  
  
"So, what's in Chicago?"  
  
"Pretty much nothing," Dean said. They'd made three stops on the way, pulling over in seemingly random places to refuel from hoarded supplies and take breaks, Sam-dog skimming over the snow and coming back with a rabbit, the second time, that Dean had cheerfully skinned for him. They hadn't seen any people, but the roads had been generally clear. Between the bigger cities, Dean said, people usually kept things mostly passable.  
  
It was nearly a thousand miles to Chicago, and it would have taken the other Dean, in that other world, about twelve hours, probably less. It took them over sixteen, and they stopped for what was left of the night with the jagged skyline of the Magnificent Mile upthrust against a rufus sky. There were fires burning, somewhere, and they eased into a driveway and camped in an abandoned house, breaking up furniture for firewood and heating up canned ravioli for dinner. Dean dragged a mattress down from upstairs and they slept in their clothes, surrounded by salt and sigils, Sam-dog across Dean's knees. It was weirdly cozy.  
  
Now it was just past dawn on Christmas day and they were standing on the Mile itself, the white-flecked waters of Lake Michigan in sight, and the blackened skeletons of skyscraping buildings all around. The air was thick with the smell of burning – rough with ashes. The constant, ice-fanged wind had scoured the ground clean of snow, but it clung in corners and down in the bottom of subsidences, dirty grey.  
  
"So...what are we doing here?"  
  
"We're doing a test run," Dean said.  
  
"A test run?"  
  
"Yup." Dean looked down at a crumpled scrap of paper he'd fished from the glove compartment, and then up at the sky, gauging directions. "We're gonna see exactly what these fancy new powers of yours can do."  
  
They ended up at the Millennium Monument in the park, standing in the middle of a steel ward that had been forcibly inset into the cracked pavement of Wrigley Square. Something Max and Scott had made, apparently – one of a couple dozen scattered all over.  
  
"Never know when one might come in handy," Dean said, drawing with violent blue chalk on the un-warded remains of the Square.  
  
"Handy for _what_?" Sam wondered, but Dean ignored him, cheerfully walking backward, dragging the chalk in a complicated series of circles and squares and triangles. Sam-dog had been left to guard the car, a block away under cover and behind wards in an underground parking garage.  
  
"All right." Dean stood up, dropping the chalk into the hold-all at his feet and dusting his hands together. "Now, we just need a little blood –"  
  
"Whoa, hey, hang on." Sam put his hand out, stopping Dean from drawing the knife at his hip. "What do you mean, blood? What are you doing, Dean?"  
  
"Testing your powers, Sam. Seeing what you can do." The manic grin was fixed – the gleam in Dean's eyes was full of energy and excitement but there was something else, too.  
  
"You...are you gonna... _feed_ me to it, Dean?"  
  
" _No_!" Dean looked genuinely offended but also slightly stubborn. "I wasn't gonna...I just – we'll be safe inside the ward."  
  
Sam felt something like panic, rising swift and cold. "Until you push me out."  
  
"Sam, God damnit..." Dean shoved his hand back through his hair, leaving a smudge of blue on his temple. "I'm not going to push you out or feed you to it or tie you to a fucking altar and chant Latin backward, okay? I need to know...I need..." He stopped, shoulders slumping, and Sam hesitantly took the two or three steps that brought him right up close, into Dean's space.  
  
The dark green scarf Dean wore was a little frayed, fuzzy, broken threads sticking up against the pale skin of Dean's throat. "You need to know you can trust me."  
  
"Ah, _fuck_." Dean wheeled away, stomping furiously across the ward and then stopping, staring out at the overgrown jungle of the park. The steel bones of the Pritzker Pavilion poked up above the tangle like the skeleton of some dinosaur, warped by years and weather. "Don't do that to me, Sam. Just _don't_."  
  
"Don't what?" Sam followed Dean, bewildered. "What am I doing?"  
  
"You're being all...understanding and fucking...calm and shit. You're being _rational_."  
  
Sam laughed, fists curling tight in his pockets. He felt anything but rational, his belly knotted up like a nest of snakes and his heart beating bird-wing fast in his chest. "Sorry, man. Next time I'll have a tantrum. Kick and scream a little."  
  
"You grew out of those when you were four. I just mocked you 'til you stopped." Dean's gaze slid sideways, looking at Sam, and then focused back out on the park, slitted a little against the smoke-tainted wind. "I want to trust you. I want to just...say fuck it and...let it all go but..."  
  
"But you can't." Sam laughed, softly. It was just so fucking... _Dean_. "I get it, you know? I had twenty-five years to learn to trust you. And you never...you never once let me down." Sam had the urge to wrap himself around Dean and hold on, tight. Wanted to take Dean's face between his palms and kiss him – wanted to do whatever it took to _show_ him... But – no. That wasn't proof, to Dean. Action was proof. The only thing Sam could do – really do – to prove himself to Dean was to _be_ trustworthy. To never let him down. _*God fucking help me. Man up, buddy. Dean lived this every day of his fucking life. Earning something we took for granted. Never let us down. Time to do the same.*_ The thought of living up to Dean – of doing what Dean had since he was just a kid – was fucking terrifying. _*Promise I'll do my best...I won't fail you, big brother.*_  
  
Sam touched that new, weirdly _alive_ place inside. Took a deep breath and straightened his shoulders, nose and ears stinging from the cold. "C'mon, let's call a demon so we can kick its ass."  
  
Dean looked up at Sam, the grin slowly coming back, and then he laughed – reached out and slapped Sam on the shoulder, holding on for a moment. "That's my boy. Let's go."  
  
Summoning a demon – something Sam hadn't ever done before – was pretty damn simple. A little blood, a little fire, and then he and Dean were standing warily at the very center of the ward, watching the blue chalk design flare up into a weird, white fire. It curled upward in sheets, distorting the view through it and Sam could _feel_ it. It beckoned – sang. It promised, oh, everything and Sam felt himself sway one step forward, entranced.  
  
Then Dean's hand twisted in his jacket and jerked him back and Sam blinked, looking around.  
  
"What the fuck are you doing?" Dean hissed, and Sam cursed softly.  
  
"It works."  
  
"Hell, I know that. Jesus. Stay _here_."  
  
"I..." Dean beckoned, as well – _homebloodcomfortfamily_ – and Sam reached out and tangled their fingers together, squeezing a little. Skin on skin – was better. The call of the other thing faded a little, with the solid, steady rumble of _DeanDeanDean_ rolling across Sam's skin. "Just don't let go, okay?"  
  
"Should we skip, too?" Dean grumbled. But his fingers squeezed back, cold and callused and strong; not letting go.  
  
  
  
Something was moving, far out along the southern horizon. Something bright, that wavered and twisted like a candle-flame, guttering. Sam watched it, wondering if it was more of Chicago going up in flames, until Dean suddenly seemed to catch sight of it, as well.  
  
"Oh, fuck."  
  
"Huh?" Sam couldn't tear his eyes off it, the winding, curling flame that twisted through the air like a swallow. Dart and dive and dip, but sinuous as a snake. Riding an ash-skeined wind that tore at their clothing and hair, pushing against the wind off the lake and reeking of burning and death.  
  
"It's one of them, the old ones! _Fuck_ , this only ever called one of the little ones before!"  
  
Dean was yelling over the dry rush of the storm, fine tremors coming through his hand and Sam finally turned his head, monumental effort, and the thing inside him – the power – bloomed. Spread itself as it had before, in Bobby's yard, and Sam felt his mouth falling open and his chest hitching in a hard, sharp breath.  
  
 _Light_ , all around Dean. Light and shadow that flowed over him like the dappled sunlight under a tree. Pure, ferocious intent stained with old blood – old sins. A well-used, well-tended weapon, tempered in an unimaginable fire and all the deadlier for it. And then the wind stopped, from gale to dead calm in seconds.  
  
The ward pulsed, blue-yellow-gold, solid walls of power that sank into the earth and rose up above them. Sam traced the lines of it with his gaze – followed them up and up and only looked down again when Dean's hand squeezed so hard around his it hurt. The demon – _Grigori_ – hovered a handful of yards away. It seemed to hum, a subsonic crooning that shivered through Sam's bones. Invasive, intimate caress that made Sam shudder all over.  
  
God, it was.... _*Beautiful, it's...beautiful...*_  
  
"Are we gonna get eaten by flying skeleton chicks now, Indy?" Dean's voice was raw and shaking, produced with obvious effort and Sam closed his eyes.  
  
"I didn't...think I said that out loud."  
  
"It's a fucking demon, Sam. Kill it." Dean's hand was locked down around Sam's, bone-cracking tight, and Sam squeezed back. Opened his eyes again.  
  
The demon seemed to draw itself upward, twisting pillar that Sam had to tilt his head back to see. " _Nochri_." It was a word – a voice – but it was at once in Sam's head and in his ears and in his bones. In the very atoms of his self and it hurt and didn't hurt, in equal measure. Beside him, Dean made a choking noise of pain and Sam lashed out with the power, a solid shove.  
  
"Shut up!"  
  
The thing recoiled, hissing, and the next words were purely internal. * _One of us, after all. Cousin...brother...lover –_ *  
  
"No. I'm not." The ward's walls were shivering; a flowing dance of light and the demon leaned in, wide as the sky. Where it touched, a fountain of sparks went up, blue-white and hot-cold and Sam flinched. Dean's hand jerked in his and Sam squeezed it again. "I'm none of those."  
  
* _Yesss.... Ourss...._ * The thing curled around the ward, obscene cat rubbing up against its master and the ward walls groaned, cascading sparks like a rain of electric fire. Dean made that noise again, an ugly, rasping sound and Sam _pushed_ , making the twist of flame and fury and smoke recoil, growling.  
  
"I'm not yours," Sam said, and then Dean was standing in front of him, blood in a thin line from one nostril, jaw clenched and eyes slitted as if against a stinging wind.  
  
"Sammy, fuck's sake, kill it – kill the fucker –"  
  
"Sorry, I'm –" Sam lifted his hand, cupping Dean's cheek – thumb smearing the blood away, feathering over Dean's lip. "I am." He lifted his gaze to the demon and focused, looking. Finding, after a moment, what he was searching for. End of a thread – chink in the armor – and he tugged, unraveling. The demon howled, a rising shriek that sent Dean to his knees. The thing thrashed above them, looping and swerving, curling in on itself and then flowing wide open, sheet-lighting. It gibbered, wailing, and then Sam jerked a little harder and felt it spooling out. Tide of life and smutted light spinning into nothingness. _Unmaking_ it, molecule by molecule.  
  
* _Nooo...cannot...will not...._ * It knotted itself above him, keening, and Sam tore gleefully at the shreds of it, newest muscles flexing somewhere deep inside, burning ache that felt like the best of a runner's high. Like the peak of orgasm, breathless and lightless and _endless_ , God, God –  
  
" _Sam_! God damnit, _stop_ , Sam, Sam –" Dean's voice – Dean's hands, shaking him. _Dean_ , white and terrified and making him, making him –  
  
"Dean, no –" Sam's voice was slurred – hard to get out. His knees hurt from falling on them, and he lifted one lead-weighted hand and then stared at it in confusion. At blood and tattered flesh and _bone_ , Jesus. "Dean? Dean, what –"  
  
"Stop, stop it, Sam, whatever you're doing to it, stop it, you're hurting yourself, Sam, c'mon –" Dean's hands on Sam's head, holding him – keeping him focused and Sam had a lurching, nauseous moment of _mud under his knees, cold, sinking, Dean right there, holding him up, lips moving, voice coming through static, so far away...it's not even that bad...acid flooding his spine, weight of the world crushing his lungs and sorry, sorry, m'so sorry, Dean, sorry..._  
  
" _Sam_ , stop it!"  
  
Sam took in a breath, gagging. Took in another and another and let go. Shoved the demon away and almost lost it again when the unraveling stopped – reversed itself. Sudden rush of cold-hot-cold, flooding him. Over Dean's shoulder the demon knitted itself back together, eating substance from the air and the ground, and Sam... He blearily looked at his hand and it was...fine, it was fine. Smudge of blood across his knuckles and an ache in his gut like he'd been punched, but....  
  
"What the _fuck_ , Sam, what's going on?" Dean's voice held a fine, crumbling edge of panic and Sam closed his eyes.  
  
 _*Be still.*_ He opened his eyes and everything – was. The demon hung there, static flame. Ash floated, feathers of dirty goose-grey held suspended, everything simply...stopped. Sam could feel it, rippling out and out from him – reaching further with every heartbeat and he had to move, go, hurry the fuck up before he stopped the universe cold. "Dean, it's okay, I...it's..."  
  
"No, it's not, _Jesus_ , Sam." Dean sent a flick of a glance around them, eyes wide. "Nothing's ever fucking easy with you, is it?"  
  
Sam laughed, shaky. Leaned into Dean's touch, forehead to forehead and God, Dean was so warm, was so fucking _real_.... "I like to make things complicated." They simply stayed that way for a moment. One long, indulgent moment and then Sam leaned back. "I can't...kill it."  
  
Dean stared at him. "You're fucking kidding me, right? Sam?" His hand waved, shaky circuit of the ward – the demon – Chicago. "You fucking...stopped time or something and you can't...can't just...."  
  
"No. It's...we're the same. Too much the same," Sam said, and Dean glared at him.  
  
"You're not a fucking demon, Sam."  
  
"I've got the blood of one in me. I've got...divinity, Dean. Just like the demon does. They – we.... We all started...the same."  
  
Dean gaze was flat – furious, the muscle in his jaw working, working, working. Then he gave himself a tiny shake, and Sam could tell he was shoving the questions and the instant denial down and away. Putting it aside for later, because. "Whatever, man. What're we gonna do? I don't think the Colt –"  
  
"No." Sam blinked, _looking_ at Dean. Seeing, again, what the angel had showed him before. "No, I know exactly what we're gonna do, Dean, c'mon." Sam pushed himself to his feet, staggering slightly – hauling at Dean's jacket until Dean came up with him. Sam looked around – held out his hand toward the listing spars of the Pavilion. Cracking one away from the main structure with a groaning shriek of twisted metal. At the same time he gave – everything – a little nudge. At once, with an almost audible _snap_ , the world jerked back into life and motion and Dean was grinning.  
  
"Man, you are one grade A freak, you know that, Sammy?"  
  
"Runs in the family, Dean. Okay –" The length of rust-eaten steel from the pavilion smacked solidly into Sam's palm and the held it up, examining it critically. The demon wove around them, growling – twisting in loops and spirals against the walls of the ward, but the sparks didn't hurt anymore.  
  
* _Blood of our blood, cousin, let me in, let me in,_ * it whispered, but Sam ignored it.  
  
"I can't kill it, Dean, but....you can."  
  
"Huh?" Dean looked at the piece of steel in Sam's hand. "What, you want me to beat it into submission? I'm good, Sam, but I'm not _that_ good."  
  
"Jesus, shut up. This isn't a club, it's something a little more...elegant." Sam gripped the length of steel in the middle, three feet of corroded metal poking out to either side. He squeezed, concentrating, and then slid his hands apart. Between them, growing – seeming to run like quicksilver from his hands – was a sword, sun-bright and flawless. Sam slipped his right hand down the final few inches, to a hilt wrapped snugly in worn brown leather.  
  
"Sam?"  
  
"I can see you, Dean. You're...there's..." Sam stuttered to a stop – just stood there, the sword held across his two palms, offering it. "Saint Michael defeated the dragon with a sword of light."  
  
"I'm no fucking saint."  
  
Sam laughed, because, God, no – Dean wasn't. But he didn't have to be. He just had to be.... "You don't have to be anything but what you are. _Who_ you are," Sam said, and lifted the blade ever so slightly.  
  
Dean looked like he wanted to argue – refuse – but once again, he pushed it down. Let it go, and reached slowly for the sword. When his hand touched the leather, Sam felt a surge of something. Light, energy - _life_ , and the sword slipped into Dean's hand like it was coming home. Dean lifted it, turned it this way and that, the curling, soot-red flames of the demon reflecting in the polished blade like feathers – like dragon's scales. "So, what, I'm fucking...Batman now? A scanner? Do I just...?" Dean made an experimental swipe through the air and the blade _hummed_ , latent power bleeding into the air.  
  
"You wish, man. You're the same as you always were, Dean. Now you've just got...the right weapon." Sam grinned, watching Dean heft the sword – watching him turn and face the demon, which coiled upward, molten smoke. There was something... "Dean, wait!"  
  
Dean pulled his foot back from the edge of the ward and half-turned to Sam, and Sam strode over to him. Reached out and nicked his finger on the shimmering razor-edge of metal. Blood welled up instantly, a thin line of scarlet and Dean frowned.  
  
"Why'd you do that?"  
  
"Because you need one more thing...." Sam reached out and touched Dean's forehead – his lips. Pushed his hand down past the scarf and the shirts and pressed a smudge of blood just over Dean's heart. " _Te benedico_ ," Sam said softly. _I bless you_. The words echoed a moment, sifting through the air and through Sam – through Dean, making every particle of him glow for one blinding instant. Dean's eyes went half shut, dark lashes fanning over pale skin and Sam could see the power of the words rippling through him. Changing him, by the slenderest of margins. Just a tiny bit – just enough. And then the light faded, and it was just Dean.  
  
His eyes opened, and he looked back at Sam, old-jade green and ink-black, that inner light shining pure and clear as moonlight through ice. "Thanks, Sam." Dean took a deep breath – turned and lifted the sword, and stepped across the ward.  
  
  
  
  
  
Later, once Dean had figured out he could simply put the sword _away_ into nothingness – and had put it away a half-dozen times, grinning like a fool – they drove out of the funeral pyre of the city, heading south.  
  
"So, where're we going?" Sam asked, rubbing gingerly at his eyes. The ash and wind had made them burn, and his fingers were cracked and dry from the cold.  
  
Dean eased them around an overturned Hyundai and pressed the gas down, the car surging forward with a growl. Sam-dog was upright and alert in the back seat, his huge ears pricked forward and his tail sweeping back and forth over the worn seat. "I've got a place, down in Missouri. On lake Pomme de Terre. Where I sit out the winter, usually."  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"Yeah. It's nice. You can ice fish, or just fish...wood lot half a mile away and a good, deep well." Dean stopped and cleared his throat, concentrating on the road. "It's a secure place."  
  
"It's your _nest_. You nested," Sam teased, and Dean shot him a fierce look.  
  
"Shut up, Sam."  
  
"Are there curtains? I'll bet you got curtains. And a _duvet_. And matching teacups."  
  
"I will leave you on the side of the road, Sam, swear to God," Dean growled, and Sam just laughed. It felt good.

 

 

 _Nochri_ is Hebrew for 'stranger' or 'foreigner'

 

 

'In Dreams'

 

 _In his dreams, the sword is weightless. A shaft of pure light, that hurts to look at. In his dreams, Sam's blood is hot and vital on his tongue, setting him alight – sending seething flame all through his body for just a moment.  
  
In his dreams, he steps across the ward and he can **feel** it. It's like stepping through a wave at the sea – like walking out of calm into a strong wind, and he falters for a moment. The demon towers over him, and its body is at once a pillar of flame and a twisted rope of raw flesh and blood – bone and maggots and the sheen of sunlight on water. He can't sort it into one or the other, and doesn't want to.  
  
It whispers at him, mocking – curls around him like a snake, making his skin shiver. In his dreams, he's not afraid.  
  
He lifts the sword and brings it down, flashing arc, and the demon screams. Where the sword has cleaved it, it bleeds. Muddied light, like a shoal of tarnished silver fish, fans out from it, dissolving. It ravels apart like a poorly made scarf, essence unspooling into the ether until it sputters into nothing. Gone, just like that, and he grins.  
  
Turns to Sam, to ***stranger, brother, lover, other, family*** and lifts the sword in half-mocking, half-serious salute.  
  
'Sammy, man, you gotta get you one of these.'  
  
In his dreams, Sam grins back – steps out of the invisible pulse of the ward and yanks him close by a fistful of leather and scarf. 'I think one's plenty, don't you?'  
  
In his dreams, Sam's mouth is cold and chapped and tastes of salt, and coffee, and mint. In his dreams, it takes his breath away – makes heat curl in his belly, makes his heart pound._  
  
In real life, it's ten times better.


End file.
